


Portrait of an angel on fire

by IneffableDemon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Crowley, Aziraphale is a Lord, Background Character Death, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Competency Kink, Fencing’s inherent homoeroticism, Gothic Romance, Human AU, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Late 18th Century, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Homophobia, Slow Burn, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, They’re very dumb, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Yearning, they're switches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 111,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29087505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDemon/pseuds/IneffableDemon
Summary: "Lord Angelo turned around. His eyes were the same colour as the ocean surrounding them. He had fine lines around them, giving him a soft expression. When he smiled, Crowley could have sworn those eyes sparkled.Lord Angelo was the most beautiful man Crowley had ever seen—nearly angelic."When the painter Anthony J. Crowley takes on a new but strange commission, he unexpectedly falls in love with him, tangling himself with the secrets surrounding the Angelo family and the destiny awaiting Lord Aziraphale.Posted every Saturday, Tuesday and Thursday at around 7 pm UTC +1
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 194
Kudos: 89





	1. Memorized my memories until they multiplied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



> Thanks to KannaOphelia for all your love and encouragement! I wouldn't have been able to write this without your help and amazing beta-ing. And an other huge thanks to our little discord family in Optimal Microclimate! You guys are the best <3

The strong sea wind blew cold on Crowley’s face. His clothes were getting wet, contributing to his general state of discomfort. His legs, too long for the small boat, painfully demanded to be stretched. They had been travelling on a proper ship for some days, and that had been uncomfortable enough. Crowley had then been informed that he would need to go on a smaller boat to get to land.

At least the island was now close.

The Isle of Libra had a sharp, rocky coastline. The sea incessantly crashed against its coast, weathering it into different shapes. Some vegetation could be seen on top of its cliffs. Crowley’s destination was probably hiding behind those trees.

The boat’s constant sway made him slightly nauseous. Crowley leaned towards the tumultuous water, trying to wet his hand to refresh himself. He immediately regretted this decision.

His wooden box, and its precious content, dropped in the sea.

Crowley reacted without hesitation. He heard the sailor accompanying him cry out, and felt hands trying to grab him, but it was too late; he plunged into the water. The sudden cold took his breath out of his lungs, and he feared he wouldn’t be able to move until the adrenaline kicked in.

He began kicking in the water, stretching his hands before him, blindly trying to find the box. The seawater drenched his mouth, and he noticed his glasses had disappeared with the impact. In the space between two waves, he gained enough momentum to break the water’s surface and find the box, floating not too far away from him. He swam towards it, grabbing it with all his might. He felt his wet hair falling to his eyes, and he pushed it aside while he swam back to the boat.

The box was heavy, and his fingers hurt from the cold and the force he was applying. Luckily, the sailor helped him put it back on the boat. Crowley tried to get on the boat by himself—the moment he was about to fall back, the sailor grabbed his clothes and slammed him back to his seat like he weighed nothing. Crowley’s face burnt with embarrassment. He had been too careless and he had nearly lost all his materials because of it. And now he felt even colder than before, his clothes uncomfortably sticking to his skin.

He sighed in relief when the boat finally arrived at the island’s coast. The moment the boat touched the beach, Crowley jumped out of it. His legs were grateful to finally walk on steady ground. The sailor handed him his box, which Crowley tied to his back with a rope. The man promptly went back to his boat, without saying a word, and Crowley shrugged. Not the best company, sailors.

The moment Crowley tried to walk, his legs promptly reminded him that, in fact, he had been several days on a ship, and that he was now walking on a rocky shore with wet shoes. He tripped and nearly fell all long he was. At the last minute, he somehow managed to regain his equilibrium.

Crowley started to walk, deliberately ignoring the squelch sounds coming out from his shoes. He had to go to Eden’s Park, where his employer resided. Crowley saw, with much dismay, the steep slope that awaited him. He groaned and adjusted the box on his back.

By the time he reached the house, it was already dark. Just in time, he remembered his lost glasses. He searched for his emergency substitute in his bag; Crowley didn’t want to spook his hosts appearing in the dark looking like _that._ He put them on and knocked on the door.

It opened with a creak. A young man appeared on the threshold—probably some sort of valet.

“I’m the painter, Anthony J. Crowley.”

The man nodded and invited Crowley to come in. Crowley gratefully did so. He was shaking—he couldn’t wait to change into other clothes and sit in front of a fire.

Crowley looked around. The house was large, as expected of a rich family. In front of the entrance, there were stairs going to the next floor, probably up to the bedrooms. A hall opened at his right, probably where the kitchen was, judging by the nice smell coming out of it. At his left, Crowley saw the living room, drowning in shadows.

There was a faint light in the kitchen’s direction. Crowley longed to walk towards it, where a fire would surely be waiting for him.

From the corner of his eye, he saw something moving. Crowley turned his head. At the top of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of a white figure walking away. He realized that someone had been watching him upon his arrival.

Crowley opened his mouth to call out to them, but at that moment the manservant who had opened the door appeared in his field of vision.

“You are drenched, sir! Did it rain?”

Crowley sputtered some nonsense, but the man wasn’t really listening.

“Come this way sir, your room is already prepared.”

The manservant made a gesture to help Crowley with his things, but he declined. The man appeared to be a nervous person, with hands that didn’t stay still for more than two seconds. The last thing Crowley wished was for his wooden box to fall and receive more damage.

Crowley followed him up the stairs, along a dark corridor only illuminated by his companion’s candle. Crowley searched for the white figure he had seen, but besides the two, the house looked deserted.

The servant stopped in front of one of the doors with a nervous smile on his face. He opened it and Crowley stepped inside, sighing of relief at the sight of a fire and a bed waiting for him. The room had obviously been neglected for some time, but it was habitable, and that was enough for Crowley. It had big windows—the sea could probably be seen during the day.

Crowley put his stuff on the ground and stretched his tortured back.

“Well, have a good night, sir. Lady Angelo will talk to you tomorrow.” The valet started closing the door.

“Wait, what is your name?”

The servant looked surprised. “You can call me Newt, Mr Crowley. I’m Lord Angelo’s valet.”

Crowley smiled at him reassuringly, although it struck him as unusual that a personal valet in a house this size was acting as a footman. Newt bowed with his head and closed the door, leaving Crowley to finally rest.

===

Lady Frances Angelo was a beautiful woman. She had wrinkles around sparkling green eyes, and she softly smiled the moment she saw Crowley entering the living room. The morning light coming from the window made her look like a divine apparition.

“Mister Crowley, I presume? What a delight to finally meet you.”

Crowley bowed. “The pleasure is mine.”

He sat where she indicated.

Lady Angelo went straight to the point of his visit, something Crowley appreciated. “As I wrote, the portrait is of my son, Aziraphale. It needs to be done in six weeks.”

Crowley nodded.

He noticed a melancholy aura surrounding her while she talked that he hadn’t noticed upon entering the room. It followed her every gesture. She talked with no hesitancy in her voice, but her eyes were unfocused, distracted, and she didn’t move her hands when talking.

Lady Angelo smiled. “You look just like your father. He did a portrait of my husband and me some years ago. It wasn’t very… usual, and perhaps that’s one of the reasons I hold it dear in my heart. The fact that his son is the one to make the portrait for my own son seems fitting somehow.”

That surprised Crowley. He didn’t know that his father had been there before. It didn’t surprise him that his father didn’t follow the usual rules, and he was grateful Lady Angelo hadn’t been offended by it. Yet part of him felt rage. How long until he could finally be free from his father’s shadow?

Unaware of Crowley’s discomfort, or perhaps deliberately ignoring it, Lady Angelo kept talking. “I will be gone during those six weeks, visiting my sick sister. The portrait needs to be done by the time I come back.”

Lady Angelo’s distraction seemed to vanish for a moment, and she stared into Crowley’s eyes through the glasses. Crowley’s soul felt bare in front of those eyes. He gulped, hoping that she couldn’t really see the colour of his eyes.

“I have to be honest with you. This job has some… unusual requirements.” Lady Angelo cleared her throat, snapping Crowley back to reality. “You aren’t the first painter I have commissioned. I first tried with a painter from the town nearby, but he was never able to finish it. The portrait is a gift for my son’s fiancée—he will depart to Milan to be married if it pleases them. The problem is, Aziraphale doesn’t want to be painted and refuses to pose.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. How was he supposed to paint someone that refused to be painted?

“My son believes you are here as a walking companion. Knowing your father, he has surely assured you were trained in fencing. Is that right?” Crowley nodded.

“Aziraphale is quite proficient in it; you could help him train”, Lady Angelo continued. “It’s been a while since he had someone to train with. You must take the time you spend with him as an opportunity to study and learn his face, and then paint him in the privacy of your room.”

Lady Angelo leaned a bit towards Crowley with a serious face.

“The fact that you are a painter must remain secret.”

===

Crowley walked into his room, closing the door quietly behind him. He needed to think. He hadn’t expected those kinds of conditions when he had first accepted the job. It had appeared a bit strange, right off the start, when he had read the commission letter—it had seemed oddly urgent.

Crowley had several years of experience making portraits and a broad imagination, so the strange conditions wouldn’t be a problem. The situation had made him anxious, but he steadied himself—he could do this. He only hoped Lady Angelo wouldn’t compare him to his father too much. What most concerned him now was the fact that he hadn’t even met Lord Angelo yet.

Crowley walked towards the open wooden box on the floor. Last night, he had been way too tired (and cold) to bother preparing the canvas properly; he had only checked that the box’s contents were in good condition and not wet as he feared. Luckily, the only thing to be wet and cold from that dip in the water had been him.

Crowley, delicately but firmly, set the easel in place. He put the canvas on it, and then he remembered Lady Angelo’s conditions. Looking around, he found that the canvas would be too obvious upon entering the room.

He opened the wardrobe and found some spare blankets. He inspected the walls and discovered where to attach them and did so, separating the room in two, like some sort of improvised curtain. That way, the canvas and the rest of his art tools would be hidden behind it. Couldn’t ever be too careful.

His conversation with Lady Angelo kept turning around in his head. Crowley had been surprised to know that she knew his father, well enough to guess how he had raised his child. Crowley indeed had some fencing training, but he hadn’t been very good at it. He had even been expelled from the school he had attended, years ago.

Crowley’s father was a rather important figure in the art world. Crowley had learned everything he knew from him.

It was too bad that his father was better at painting than parenting.

Crowley had always felt tied to his father, unable to escape his grasp. His dream was to make a name for himself and be free from his father’s virulence. The moment he found a job, some small commission, Crowley had finally escaped from his house.

The curse of being the son of a famous painter was that his father’s name never really left him. It hadn’t been the first time someone made a contract with him because of his family ties, not for his own talent. His father had now retired, and refused to take commissions; people then sought his son, thinking that they would find a likeness of the famous artist, hoping that Crowley would have at least a shadow of his father’s talent.

Crowley _had_ talent, but not in the same way that his father had. His father sought to impress the clients, to make something that he knew would be appreciated, but at the same time, he didn’t follow the conventional expectations. He liked to put original elements that made his paintings more memorable.

Crowley also tended to be original and flamboyant. But he leaned more toward exposing the client’s soul and expressing it in the painting. Weren’t souls the ultimate form of expression and characterization, more than just the physical appearance? Crowley aimed for his clients to be _touched_ by his paintings. He wanted them to feel _seen,_ even if what they discovered in it wasn’t agreeable.

Crowley felt a pang of hunger and decided to make himself seen in the kitchen. Leaving his art materials behind the improvised curtain, and closing the door behind him, he walked towards where he thought the kitchen was.

The kitchen was spacious, with a table and stools to sit at. The table was set and ready for three people to have lunch. There was only an elderly maid there, finishing preparing lunch, with blonde hair and hands that worked diligently. When she saw Crowley entering the room, her eyes opened in surprise.

“Oh, you must be the new artist, right?”

Crowley nodded. “I’m Anthony J. Crowley.”

The maid kindly smiled. “I’m Tracy, sir.”

Tracy took a plate and served some soup in it, leaving it on the table for Crowley. She served herself too and sat with Crowley.

“Is no one else coming?”

“Lady Angelo received a message informing her that her sister woke up in a worse condition, so she had to depart before the planned time, sir. Newt accompanied her to where the ship awaited her. It’s only me and Newt here besides my lady and my lord.”

Crowley took a spoonful of soup, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he asked:

“And where is Lord Angelo?”

“My lord prefers to eat alone, lately.” Her voice sounded worried, and Crowley wasn’t sure if he should push further with his questions.

Something was certainly wrong in that house. There was less staff than expected, and the house showed clear signs of negligence, as well as the strange conditions of his commission. Once again, Crowley wondered why Lord Angelo refused to make an appearance and welcome his visitor.

Tracy, with her soup still untouched, leaned over the table to whisper at Crowley. Crowley, arching an eyebrow, awaited curiously for her to speak.

“I don’t know how much my lady has told you about the _situation._ But I have Lord Angelo’s best interest at heart, and I worry quite a lot about his well being. I’ve known him since he was a little boy.”

There was a silent emotion in her eyes—Crowley heard the honesty of her words and the love in them.

“I don’t think it’s in my position to tell you all of this, but I do think you deserve to know, as you’ll be working closely with Lord Angelo and it will affect you directly, sir. And because I hope you’ll be able to give him the company he needs and deserves.”

“Don’t worry, madame. I will not tell anyone whatever it is you want to tell me. I’m only here to do my job, and I don’t know if I’m the best company, but I promise to do my best.”

Tracy suddenly looked fragile and deeply tired. Crowley had the desire to hold her hands, to steady her - but he didn’t move a muscle, not wanting to disturb the poor woman.

“The Angelo family was composed of two other members, besides Lord Angelo and Lady Angelo. My lord had an older brother, Lord Gabriel Angelo, and a father, Lord Domenico Angelo. Lord Domenico died years ago in his sleep, leaving his inheritance to his first son, Lord Gabriel, including his old fencing school. He was proud of his son, a fencing prodigy. Lord Gabriel was just like his father—strict, serious, but with a hidden rage that only occasionally came to the surface. The other house employees were afraid of him. This rage became greater after his father died, and he even chased out most of the employees, only leaving young Newt and me.”

Tracy took a deep breath, and Crowley poured her water. “Thank you, sir,” she said and drank all of it in one go.

“The one that received most of Lord Gabriel’s fury wasn’t us, the employees, though,” she continued. “It was Lord Aziraphale. He has always been a very gentle and clever child, with a strong spirit that lord Gabriel always tried to bend. I remember those awful fencing practices”- Tracy shuddered at the memory. “Lord Aziraphale was always being beaten down by him. Things ended up changing in the worst way possible—with Lord Gabriel’s death, some months ago.”

Crowley stirred the soup, listening attentively. He had long since lost his appetite.

“How did it happen?”

“My lord used to take a walk every day, a tradition held by his father before him. Newt used to accompany him. That day, some obligations retained Newt in town. My lord decided to go alone. Hours went by, and I noticed that he hadn’t yet returned. My lady was deeply anxious, you know, sir. She has never truly recovered from her husband’s death, and she was always worried about her son’s whereabouts. She asked me to accompany Lord Aziraphale to look for him. And we did.”

Tracy poured herself more water but didn’t drink from her cup. She just stared at the water’s surface, surrounding the cup with her hands. Crowley wanted to push her to continue, impatient to know what had happened. He restrained himself—Tracy would tell him by her own accord.

“We found my lord at the bottom of a cliff. He fell. That day had been very windy, so we thought that the poor man had tripped, and my lord lost his balance.”

Crowley sensed there was more to the story. Tracy looked directly at him, a shadow in her eyes.

“But you see, sir, lord Gabriel didn’t normally take a path so close to the precipice. Newt told me so later on. My lord was a very prudent man and disliked taking unnecessary risks—one of the things that made him so good at fencing. There was no reason for him to be so close to the edge.”

Tracy gulped.

“I think my lord killed himself.”

===

Afternoon came. Sunshine poured from the window, giving Crowley all the light he needed. He had been preparing the canvas, readying it for whenever he could start his painting. The work kept his hands busy, eager for some normality. His mind kept buzzing with the information Tracy had given him.

It was not surprising Lord Angelo hadn’t shown himself yet. Discovering that his brother had killed himself, and being the one to find his body, was enough of a reason to prefer some solitude to mourn.

The wood of the hall creaked. Crowley peeped from behind the curtain, waiting for someone to appear at his door.

The door opened. It was Tracy.

Tracy showed surprise at the improvised curtains. Upon seeing Crowley peeking out of them, she smiled, but there was something nervous in her expression.

“My lord is waiting for you.” Crowley quickly left the place. He was excited—the time to meet his client had finally come.

“He’s waiting at the entrance. Please take a coat sir, it’s chilly today!”

Crowley smiled a bit at the concern in Tracy’s voice. It had been a while since someone showed worry for his comfort. He entered his room again, grabbed his coat, and put it on while descending the stairs.

The entrance was poorly illuminated. A white figure stood by the door, and his features were indistinguishable. The moment Crowley stepped in, the figure opened the door, his back facing Crowley. Lord Angelo was also wearing a cloak, a white hooded one. Lord Angelo stepped out and began walking fast.

Crowley tried to follow Lord Angelo’s pace, wanting to see his face. They crossed the garden and entered a forest. Crowley had trouble keeping up with Lord Angelo—he wasn’t going very fast, truly, but it had been a long time since Crowley had exercised.

They were approaching a cliff. Crowley’s blood froze. Lord Angelo didn’t slow down, and Crowley panicked.

In a fit of adrenaline, Crowley reached out to him. Before his hand reached the white cloak, Lord Angelo stopped walking just at the edge of the cliff. Delicate hands reached up to his hood, and Crowley noticed a golden glint on his pinky finger. Lord Angelo took off the hood. His hair, so light it was nearly white, was being gently ruffled by the wind. Crowley, for some reason, held his breath. Lord Angelo stood there for a moment, and Crowley didn’t dare to speak.

Lord Angelo turned around. His eyes were the same colour as the ocean surrounding them. He had fine lines around them, giving him a soft expression. When he smiled, Crowley could have sworn those eyes sparkled.

Lord Angelo was the most beautiful man Crowley had ever seen—nearly angelic.

Lord Angelo noticed Crowley’s extended hand, making him promptly retract it, blushing. Lord Angelo’s smile widened.

“My apologies, I must have frightened you. If you were wondering, I wasn’t about to jump.”

The lord turned his head around, his eyes focused on the distant horizon. Crowley observed him, still speechless.

“Don’t you ever wish you could fly?”

Crowley laughed, with a sudden relief of tension. Lord Angelo looked at him again, amused.

“I am Aziraphale Angelo. What is your name, sir?”

“Anthony J. Crowley, my lord.”

Lord Angelo nodded and started walking alongside the cliff, his hands clasped behind his back. Crowley followed him, now walking by Lord Angelo’s left side, between him and the edge. Crowley was sure now that Lord Angelo was going to jump, but he somehow wanted to protect the man. It was surely part of what he had promised Tracy.

They walked in silence, while Crowley stole glances at the man. Lord Angelo’s coat flapped behind him, making it seem like a pair of wings. His hair was short and appeared like it would be impossibly soft if Crowley ran his hand through it. The lord’s figure was round, and Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s plump legs underneath the stockings. He swallowed and tore his gaze from his companion. A couple of seconds later, Crowley looked at him again, unable to resist the temptation. He observed Aziraphale’s profile, the shape of his nose and lips, trying to memorize it—which proved to be a harder task than expected, as he couldn’t help but be distracted by Lord Angelo’s attractiveness. Crowley felt ridiculous—the other man was a client, a lord, and soon to be married. He didn’t deserve to be oddly ogled by Crowley. The painter needed to ignore how beautiful Lord Angelo was and simply memorize his features. Professionally.

The sky was a bit cloudy. From time to time, light poured in and surrounded them. This dance between the clouds and the light was reflected in the lord’s eyes, showing all shades of blue. It was hypnotizing.

Lord Angelo had a general aura of softness Crowley ached to sink in. He wondered how it would be to embrace Lord Angelo, to feel that body against his. Lord Angelo’s faint fragrance, mixed with the salty air, was being carried out by the wind towards Crowley. He was becoming dizzy with it.

Crowley diverted his eyes to his feet, quietly praying his usual awkwardness wouldn’t betray him again and make him embarrass himself in front of the lord.

Like a gravity pull, he inevitably looked at Lord Angelo again. To his own surprise, their eyes met. Crowley noticed an element in them—his eyes sparkled with light as if a fire burnt inside of him.

Crowley averted his gaze. He adjusted his glasses—always too conscious of them—hoping his eyes were totally hidden.

“Mr Crowley.”

At the sound of his name, he noticed that Lord Angelo had stopped walking, and was now behind him. Crowley turned around, unsure of what was the matter.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Did my dear mother tell you why I need a walking companion?”

Crowley thought about his conversation with Tracy and the way his brother died, wondering if that was what he was referring to.

“Not exactly.”

“I ought to be married in a couple of months in Milan. It was my brother’s duty—because of unfortunate circumstances, it is now mine.”

Lord Angelo chuckled tiredly.

“I think my mother suspects I may escape.”

===

They took the way back to the house. When they still had a long way to go, thunder rang in their ears. They exchanged looks and began to run.

They didn’t make two steps when the rain fell on them. The path turned muddy instantly, dirtying them with every step they took. It was no use in running - their clothes were soaked within minutes.

Crowley put away the hair falling on his face, annoyed. Couldn’t a day pass without him getting wet? It was starting to become a tradition he was not enjoying. He huffed when his long hair stuck to his glasses again. He heard a chuckle, and he turned around, ready to complain.

The sound died in his throat.

If he had thought that Lord Angelo was beautiful before, now the water had made him even more attractive. Wet curls stuck to his forehead in the same way his clothes were now sticking to his body. Crowley’s throat suddenly felt dry. The Lord smiled at him like he was _amused_ at Crowley’s suffering, and - was he fluttering his eyelashes? Crowley’s cheeks burnt, about to evaporate the water surrounding him, restarting the water cycle.

Lord Angelo put his hood on and opened his cloak, making a gesture with his head, inviting Crowley in.

“If you’d like to sir, please come here.”

Crowley, unsure, stepped in, allowing Lord Angelo to put the cloak above his head. They began walking again, with Lord Angelo holding the cloak above Crowley’s head with his left arm.

They probably looked ridiculous, but Crowley was about to combust. It was impossible to walk and not to touch Lord Angelo, feel his body heat. Every time Crowley took a step, his tight grazed Lord Angelo’s. The lord’s scent was now surrounding him, stronger than before. It had hints of... lavender perhaps?

Crowley was grateful to be as skinny as he was, making him able to fit in perfectly near Lord Angelo. He knew he was staring at him, but he couldn’t help it. The man was _so close._

He tried to tear his gaze from the lord and look elsewhere. He resolutely decided to attentively inspect their shoes, walking together towards the house.

It turned out to be a pretty bad idea. Lord Angelo’s shoes were slightly shining, white as the rest of his attire. Staring at his shoes made him notice his ankles, which had a lovely shape underneath the stockings. Inevitably, that made Crowley look at the rest of Lord Angelo’s legs. They were round and full, curving gracefully. Crowley studied them while they moved. Stockings had surely been invented to cover legs such as these.

Crowley was being a weird creep and he knew it. Lord Angelo had a strange effect on him and his behaviour. He strongly needed to get a hold on himself.

“It’s strange.”

Crowley’s heart stammered in his ribcage at the sound of Lord Angelo’s voice. Strange? Had he noticed Crowley staring at him?

“When I first saw you, you were also wet. I guess water has a liking for you.”

Crowley was agape. He realized that the white figure he had noticed last night had been Lord Angelo.

The lord looked at him and immediately avoided his gaze. Crowley noticed the flush on his face. Was the lord... blushing?

It couldn’t be. It was surely because of the wind.

They finally arrived at the house. Lord Angelo pulled away from the cloak and opened the door.

“That was lovely. I’ll be eagerly expecting our next walk.”

His eyes twinkled one last time, and Lord Angelo disappeared inside the house, leaving Crowley in the entrance.

===

Dusk was falling when Crowley came back to his room. He was tired, with a strange weight on his bones. He opened the windows and perched on its edge. The sky was beautiful, with shades of purple and red mixing together in odd ways, all clouds suddenly were gone. Crowley recalled Lord Angelo’s strange eyes, colour ever-changing.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Lord Angelo.

His face, hands, the way he walked and talked, the soft lines of his body. The way his wet clothes had wrapped around him. How his thigh touched him, the scent that emanated from him. The way he walked was burnt inside of Crowley’s memory.

The lord had astonished him. He wanted to know more about him, feel the lord’s eyes on him again. Crowley wanted to make that soft smile appear again. It was a silly desire—they had just met, barely spoke. The way back home had been silent most of the time, but Crowley had not felt awkward in any way. Crowley had been comfortable in his presence.

Silly as it was, Crowley’s hands ached. There was craving in him, of wanting to immortalize Lord Angelo’s beauty the best way he could.

It had been a long time since the last time he had been this inspired by someone.

Crowley rummaged through his belongings until he found his sketchbook. He walked back to the edge of the window, and taking advantage of the last rays of daylight, he drew every feature he remembered of Lord Angelo.

As if something had possessed him, the piece of coal he was using slid across the paper. Lord Angelo’s eyes, hands, smile, and figure filled several pages until fatigue finally undid Crowley. He staggered towards the bed where he slept, hugging the sketchbook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title based on an Adonis poem.


	2. He burns like the sun and I can’t look away

The first rays of daylight hit Crowley’s face, but he groaned and turned around, hiding his head under the blankets. The sunlight, determined, was still visible through his eyelids. Crowley tried in vain to grasp the last shreds of the dream he had been having. It was always like this — once he was awake and aware of the world surrounding him, it was impossible to fall asleep again. Crowley had been stupid enough to forget to close the blasted curtains before going to sleep, so now he had to face the consequences and start the day earlier than intended. He could still be in bed for a couple of minutes before that.

Crowley rolled over again. His nose hit something, and when he opened his eyes, he found his sketchbook full of Lord Angelo. He closed his eyes again, refusing to acknowledge how many sketches he had made of a man he had only met once. If Crowley was being honest with himself, he knew how ridiculous the situation was. Granted, Lord Angelo was gorgeous, anyone would be able to see that. It didn’t excuse Crowley being creepy and drawing him like he was a divine vision and he had gone mad looking at it.

Crowley needed to be calm and collected, and make a decent portrait during the time limit. He could only regard the fact that Lord Angelo was attractive as a strike of luck, as that would make it easier for Crowley to memorize his features. Crowley would simply need to forget about his attraction to the man, as not to become a flustered mess in his presence. His job had to be the priority.

The hall floor creaked, followed by a gentle knocking on his door. Crowley hastily hid the sketchbook under his pillow.

“Hrmm?”

“Mr Crowley? It’s me, Tracy. I was wondering… would you keep me company while I prepare some French bread?” Tracy’s voice came from the room’s threshold. Crowley peeked from between the sheets, but he wasn’t able to see her from that angle.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Give me a couple of minutes”.

Crowley could practically hear the smile in Tracy’s voice. “Of course, sir.”

He waited for Tracy to walk away before he got out of bed. He put on his now dry clothes - black waistcoat with a linen shirt underneath, black breeches with black stockings too, and decided to leave his usual red coat, as the weather was a bit hot. He put on his black leather shoes and ran a hand oven his waistcoat. Crowley looked fetching in those clothes and he knew it. Finally, he put on his round sunglasses and stepped out of the room.

The house was completely silent. The atmosphere of the hallway was different from the one at night — gentle sunshine poured from the window at the end of it, with spots of dust dancing, making it look as it was snowing. The only sound was that coming from the old wood beneath Crowley’s feet. He grimaced — it was as if he was disturbing the sleeping house. He wondered if Lord Angelo was still sleeping but quickly put those thoughts aside. Crowley would see him later, surely, and for the time being, he didn’t need to think about him. Nor in any time, really, only when painting. Crowley sighed. That was going to be rather difficult.

Tracy was in the kitchen waiting for him. She had all the necessary ingredients aligned in front of her, and her eyes were sparkling with mischief. Crowley instinctively knew he was not going to like what would happen next.

“If you would be so kind, could you grab that one big bowl, and mix in together three cups of flour and some salt?”

Crowley stopped himself from groaning. It was what he thought - he would have to cook. He despised it.

Tracy took another bowl and started mixing milk and egg white; she also prepared a mix with the yeast. He did as instructed, but when he was about to add the third cup of flour, it slipped from his fingers sending flour everywhere.

Tracy, barely containing her laughter, took the flour from his hands and finished pouring it, while Crowley patted his now not so black waistcoat, trying not to growl at the flour that didn’t want to come off. He would need to change his clothes later.

“Well, your clothes needed a touch of colour, honestly, sir,” Tracy said, still smirking.

Crowley looked at her. He realized that he liked her; she had a feisty attitude and never asked uncomfortable questions as she hadn’t mentioned his ever-present glasses, something everyone tended to mention. It was as if Crowley owed them an explanation.

“At least my poor cooking abilities are entertaining.”

Tracy nodded, still smiling. “That is true. It’s the reason I wanted a bit of company — cooking with others is always better. I hoped you were awake already, I’m glad I was right.”

“Isn’t anyone else here that cooks?”

Tracy sighed. She grabbed another bowl, mixing inside melted butter and egg yolk. “There was a chef and other cooks before Lord Gabriel kicked them away. Then it was only Newt and I left, and Lord Gabriel decided I was going to prepare the meals, as I was the only one that knew how to. I like cooking, but when I did so my family was always around me.”

Tracy made a gesture to grab the bowl with milk and egg, and Crowley handed it to her. She mixed it together with the butter and egg yolk, then added the yeast mix.

“Lord Angelo used to help me make bread. His brother despised it, and always made fun of him. My lord hasn’t come to the kitchen since his brother died.” Tracy discreetly wiped away a tear, leaving a trace of flour on her face. “I honestly miss those days. I hope that when my lord gets to know you helped me, perhaps that will convince him to come here again.”

She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “Well, enough of that. Now, blend this with the dry mix.”

Crowley admired Tracy for being able to pull herself together, revealing her inner strength.

He did as he was told, trying not to mess it up again. Following Tracy’s directions, he mixed the ingredients with his hands, while Tracy added more flour. When Tracy informed him that was enough, they covered it with damp cloths and left it in a warm spot. They had to leave it there for several hours; Tracy affirmed that she would finish it by herself.

“I hope you come again to help me another day.” Crowley nodded. He had fun, even if he had ended up ruining his clothes. Cooking with other people was indeed not so bad.

Before he could walk away from the kitchen, Tracy spoke again. “Mr Crowley — I have the feeling that you’ll be very important for my lord’s future. I hope that’s in a good way.”

Crowley frowned, but before he could ask, Tracy was already working on something else. He shrugged and returned to his room.

===

Crowley had memorized Lord Angelo’s features enough to begin drawing him. His canvas, now prepared, awaited him behind the improvised curtain. He had drawn enough portraits for his hand to know how to draw a general pose without needing a model. Later on, Crowley needed to settle on what kind of clothes he would draw Lord Angelo in, as the only time he had seen him he had worn a coat that hid the majority of his outfit. Crowley remembered the shape of his legs with stockings, and his face turned red. He couldn’t only draw Lord Angelo’s legs and smiles, he needed more details about the shape of his body.

Lord Angelo had an ample body, softness apparent even beneath the coat. Crowley could work with that in the meantime, tracing general lines on the canvas. He had to be patient, and study his client’s features well, even if his fingers ached to draw everything about him at that instant. He wanted to paint those curls, the delicate hands that held the coat above Crowley’s head, letting him at his side in a gesture of pure gentleness towards a total stranger. He wanted to paint the way his eyes light up in different colours.

Sometimes, he wasn’t able to work for days because of a lack of inspiration. Crowley felt that his problem was being the other way around — he only wanted to draw.

Crowley only realized how many hours had gone by when he noticed the change of position of his hand’s shadow on the canvas. He had probably missed lunch, but that was something usual for him — he could paint and sketch for hours without needing to eat much, or sleep for that matter. Courtesy of running away from home and needing to work as fast as possible to satisfy as many clients as he could and earn money.

Crowley decided to go see Tracy in the kitchen, even if to only say hello. Stepping out of his room, he nearly walked over Newt, that by the looks of it he was about to knock on his door.

“Lord Angelo is ready.”

Crowley descended the stairs in a hurry; it was a miracle that he didn’t trip with his own limbs. Lord Angelo was there, waiting for him, just like the day before. The moment he saw Crowley, he opened the front door, the sun illuminating his smiling face.

They took the same path as the day before. It was a clear day — the sun hit hard, and Crowley was grateful for his sunglasses. He squinted at Lord Angelo, that walked alongside him, with his hands clasped behind his back. Crowley paid attention to the way his companion walked. Lord Angelo moved with determination, his back perfectly upright, looking at the distance before him. He had an air of inner confidence, but the pace of his steps spoke of a gentle manner. He didn’t look like a strict man, but he had surely been raised like one. Crowley saw the way Lord Angelo admired the landscape, something that he must have seen millions of times before, but that he still admired nonetheless. Lord Angelo loved what he saw, and wasn’t afraid of showing that love, not caring if that could be seen as a weakness.

Crowley wondered if he could paint the portrait just like this — Lord Angelo walking with nature surrounding him, love shining in his face. It would without a doubt make the lord’s fiancée agree to the marriage.

Lord Angelo turned around to look at him, and Crowley held his breath. He felt the desire to be admired just like the landscape — Crowley wondered what it would be like for those eyes to shine that way when he saw Crowley. The painter remembered what he had promised himself that same day, and the day before — no more weakness toward this impossibly gorgeous man, only professionalism. Pushing those admiring thoughts aside — something that was beginning to be a habit — he returned Lord Angelo’s perfectly normal smile.

“I heard you and Madame Tracy this morning in the kitchen. She convinced you to prepare bread, didn’t she?” Lord Angelo’s eyes beamed.

Crowley welcomed the distraction. Talking. He could do small talk.

“Uh.” Crowley slapped himself mentally. “Yeah.”

Lord Angelo, ever so nice, didn’t comment on Crowley’s eloquence. “It’s been some time since I helped her myself. Looking at you, I bet you two had great fun. Maybe I should join you two next time.”

Lord Angelo’s eyes wandered over Crowley’s figure, making his heart stop. For a moment, he forgot how to walk properly, but then Lord Angelo’s eyes returned to the path before them.

“I wonder where the majority of flour ended up — in the bread or on your clothes.”

Lord Angelo laughed, and Crowley noticed, to his great concern, that he had completely forgotten to change his outfit. Most of the flour had fallen with his movements, but it was still clearly visible. His clothes being black made it all even more obvious; for the first time, his excellent taste in clothing had turned on him. Crowley could feel how the colour of his face was starting to match his hair. Apparently, it was impossible to meet Lord Angelo without making a fool out of himself. Crowley patted his clothes, trying to clean himself, while the lord kept giggling. Well, at least someone was enjoying himself.

Crowley quickly changed the subject. “And how is Mr Newt? I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

Lord Angelo smiled conspiratorially. “He went on an errand in town.”

Crowley wondered about Lord Angelo’s look of mischief — it was like something was going on that Crowley wasn’t a part of. His curiosity was greater than the sensible part of himself; before he could bite his tongue and stop himself from prying into other’s affairs, he opened his mouth.

“Oh? And what kind of errand is that, my lord?”

Lord Angelo took a look at Crowley’s arched eyebrow and grin, clearly noticing that Crowley had perceived a story there. He wiggled his shoulders, happy to share it with someone. He _wiggled._ Crowley tried not to be too obvious on how much he was melting. The lord was utterly, stupidly adorable.

“Well, you see, there’s this adorable bookshop in town where I buy my books from. When a new book is coming to the shop, I make a reservation and go later to retrieve it, but one day I was too busy and asked Mr Newt to go in my stead. It was a pity, as I love to go in person and visit those _wonderful_ books.” Lord Angelo sighed, lost in the memory of the bookshop. Crowley smiled at the way he had said _wonderful_ as if describing the best thing in existence. He made a mental note to visit the bookshop one of those days.

Lord Angelo cleared his throat. “Mr Newt came back red as a beet. I had never seen the boy so agitated, and I was rightfully worried. When I asked him what was the matter he —” Lord Angelo giggled, showing dimples that Crowley memorized for later. “— he said he had seen the most beautiful woman in his life. Turns out the dear boy has fallen in love with the girl that works in the bookshop. She has a rather interesting character, and I am too curious to see how this plays out, so I send Mr Newt there to retrieve my books as much as possible. I miss visiting the shop, but seeing Mr Newt’s poor attempts at courting a lady is entirely worth it.”

Crowley was delighted at Lord Angelo’s joy. He had expected him to be a melancholic person, even if a gentle one — and Crowley was pleasantly surprised to see how wrong he was. Crowley did sense some sadness underneath those disarming wiggles, but there was much more to it than at first glance. This was a man that loved life, and was giddy with it; Lord Angelo took pleasure in the outcomes of the different types of human relationships. He was clearly not a social man, but the fact that he closed himself to the world clashed with Lord Angelo’s curious nature. The lord of the island loved the world, and the people surrounding him — why did he insist on being alone? Even these accompanied walks had been forced upon him.

Crowley wanted to know more about him, about the origin of this seclusion. Lord Angelo didn’t appear like a man that would open up quickly, which was just fine for Crowley. He wasn’t, either, so he understood the desire to keep one’s life private. It was of no matter, either way, as he doubted Lord Angelo would be interested in an ordinary walking companion’s life.

The rest of the walk went by with some idle talk. It was apparent Lord Angelo thought he had talked far too much, and didn’t offer any more information about his life and taste. They went back to the house when the sun was beginning to settle. Lord Angelo immediately retreated to the house’s library, leaving Crowley standing alone at the entrance as the day before.

===

Crowley had dinner with Tracy and an embarrassed Newt, who was suffering under Tracy’s inquiries. She had settled her mind on knowing everything new that could have happened, and Crowley was only too happy to be part of it. Maybe he could tell the news to Lord Angelo himself, and be the focus of Lord Angelo’s joy again. Newt was hard to convince, but between Tracy and Crowley he finally confessed he managed to have a normal conversation with the centre of his affections, Anathema. Crowley had to try his best to not laugh at the poor man’s attempts. He was no one to judge, really.

The moment he laid his head on the pillow, Crowley realized he wouldn’t be able to sleep. His sleeping schedule was always a mess — he would sometimes sleep for days straight or remain awake for an inhuman amount of hours. That night felt like the latter case, so instead of battling with his own mind trying to find his rest, Crowley got up again.

The problem was to find what he could do until dawn. Crowley wondered if he could draw something, but drawing by candlelight always gave him migraines, so he discarded the idea. He could either count his fingers or go walk around the house or the garden. He chose the latter.

The wood beneath his socks creaked with every step he took. Crowley was bending on himself every single time it happened as if making his body smaller would stop the noise from occurring. It was a silly reaction, as the entire house around him was being brought alive by the wind.

Crowley was about to reach the stairs when he heard tapping noises coming from inside one of the rooms. He considered ignoring it for a couple of seconds, but his curiosity had a stronger pull on him. Silently, he opened the room and peeped inside, finding it empty. There was dust covering all surfaces — a made bed, a table and a wardrobe. No personal possessions to be found. Crowley approached the window — a tree was banging its branches against the crystal. That had probably been the noises he had caught.

Well, he was already there, so he could take a look around. Crowley inspected the desk. The wood was dark and quite old, but perfectly well kept; it didn’t even have rounded corners. Crowley made sure not to touch it, as not to leave any traces of his presence.

He stared at the drawers, considering if opening them was trespassing way too much. He shrugged and carefully opened them — he had trespassed enough already too much to stop. The contents of the drawer were highly disappointing: a Bible, with a black and simple cover that showed years of use. Crowley grimaced. A Bible, really? He took it by two fingers, disgusted, not sure what to do with it. Crowley was not a believer and had always tried to avoid church and religion in general. His mother had been obsessed with it, making Crowley develop an instinctive revulsion towards it.

He sighed and opened it, leaving the candle on the corner of the desk, forgetting about being subtle. It was a plain, normal Bible. He quickly scanned the pages, not sure what he was looking for. Judging there was nothing unusual in its contents, Crowley checked the back cover. He found something written there, a dedication. To Lord Gabriel.

Crowley placed the Bible back to its place and looked at the room with new eyes. This had been Gabriel’s room. It surely didn’t seem like someone’s room, unless a guest’s one, as it was so impersonal and empty. There were no paintings on the walls and no objects on the desk. Crowley wondered if all that had been removed after Lord Gabriel’s passing or the room’s owner had simply been this austere.

There were more drawers, so Crowley checked all of them. The next ones were empty except for the last one. Crowley took the object in his hands — it was a diary.

Well, that was far more interesting than the Bible. It had black covers, as worn out as the religious text, and it was small enough to fit in one hand. Crowley hastily opened it, but after reading a few pages he was disappointed — the big majority of its contents just talked about fencing. Fencing poses, attacks, and even clothes. It was boring Crowley out of his mind. Lord Gabriel hadn’t been an exciting writer, that was for sure.

He passed some pages, resigning himself to find more fencing content. He felt something off about the disposition of the pages. Crowley frowned and found the source of it: pages were missing, ripped from the diary. From the pieces of paper left, only two or three pages had been torn. He read the page just before:

_April, 13th._

_Father has not presented himself in class again. The students are starting to spread rumours, and it worries me. Why can’t Father care more about our family’s reputation? I talked to our servants and no one knew where he was. I even asked my ignorant brother, but unsurprisingly, he had no clue. I shall speak to Father whenever he makes an appearance. This needs to end._

_April, 15th._

_I have talked to Father. I tried to make him come to his senses, but it was futile. Something worries him — he has stopped eating and he doesn’t take his usual walk. I have interrogated him but he won’t share anything with me. What must be the problem that troubles him this much, that he can’t even share it with his eldest son? Mother ignores it too._

_April, 18th._

_I can feel everyone’s eyes on us. The servants know something is deeply wrong, even if I don’t know what myself. Mother refuses to speak to me too. In rare occasions, Father comes back home and demands to speak to Aziraphale alone. They are keeping me in the dark. Who do they take me for?_

At this point, the writing was becoming more erratic, like Lord Gabriel was in a rush. Crowley was deeply concerned. What secret was this family hiding?

_April, 19th._

_I resorted to something unspeakable. I broke into Father’s studio, even when I had promised not to enter the room when he is not there, but the family’s name is more important than my honour. What I have discovered has broken the image I had of my Father. I shouldn’t leave it written, or I risk someone finding it, but if I don’t I think I’ll go insane._

The page stopped there. Crowley clicked his tongue — what had Lord Gabriel discovered? From the looks of it, he had written it down on the next pages that had been torn. Someone else knew about whichever problem the deceased lord had, and about this diary. Someone that didn’t want it to be known.

Aziraphale, the current Lord Angelo, appeared to be part of it. How deeply was he involved?

This had obviously been written when Lord Angelo was still alive, some years ago, if he remembered correctly. Crowley turned more pages, but the diary’s contents had fallen into the same old explanations of fencing. That was odd — perhaps Lord Gabriel had tried to cover up the contents about this secret for any causal reader, obviously without success, judging by the missing text.

Crowley looked at the final entry, expecting to find something related to Lord Gabriel’s suicide.

_March, 23th_

_Not even Father’s death was enough to solve this. I have tried my best to do whatever it takes to get us out of this situation, but I don’t see an end in sight. I will have to sell my very own soul. Mother is right; this marriage is the answer. I see no escape from it, and I am becoming more desperate. I must find another way. There has to be another one._

The diary ended there. Lord Gabriel must have taken his own life to be free from this responsibility, making everything fall on Lord Angelo’s shoulders.

At that moment, something creaked. Crowley recognized the noise in an instant; it was coming from the hall. He placed the diary back to its shelf and he knelt behind the desk, covering his candle to hide the light.

Crowley’s heart hammered in his ears. He heard steps slowly approaching, and for the first time in years, he prayed, desperate to not be discovered. There was no way he could justify why he was in the same room as a diary with contents that had needed to be torn apart to keep a secret.

With increasing panic, Crowley heard the person stop in front of Lord Gabriel’s door. Crowley felt stupid — he had left the door ajar, instead of closing it behind him. The person obviously noticed and opened it all the way. Crowley held his breath. He heard them sigh, and he recognized their voice — it was Tracy. Crowley waited, not daring to move a muscle, hoping that she wasn’t noticing the faint light of his candle. He didn’t want to blow on it and be left in the dark, as he didn’t trust he knew enough about the layout of the house to go back to his room without seeing.

Tracy, after observing there was no one in the room, closed the door again and walked away. Crowley let out the air he had been holding and waited until he couldn’t hear Tracy’s steps anymore to get out of the chamber. He moved as slowly as he could, trusting that any noise he made would be attributed to the old house reacting to the wind.

He was being ridiculous. He thought about Tracy; good old Madame Tracy. She was kind and clever and had shown him nothing but gentleness since Crowley had appeared. He shouldn’t have been so scared of her — she would have probably understood his innate curiosity, and they would have laughed and headed to bed. Reading Lord Gabriel’s diary had affected him. Crowley didn’t even know how true its contents were — maybe the lord had been extremely paranoid and had seen secrets and conspiracy where there were none.

Crowley’s own family hadn’t been full of love. He remembered the terror he had felt every night of his life until he escaped. It was not surprising he was now projecting those fears into this family the moment he saw something out of place.

The image of Lord Angelo came to him. He was soft and had an inner light that never failed to dazzle Crowley. He didn’t strike Crowley like someone that would be involved in this kind of issue. What Crowley needed was to sleep and calm his nerves, simple as that.

Crowley was about to go back to his room, but he noticed a faint light at the end of the hall. His instincts, ever so wise, told him to go back to bed and to stop trying to get him into serious trouble. As always, his curious nature was stronger than any rational thought he could have; he followed it.

The door of the room where the light was coming from was ajar. Crowley peeped, careful as to not being seen. What he saw made him forget how to breathe.

It was the library. The room was large, with endless rows of books of all shapes and colours. There was a faint fragrance, a very familiar one, of old books, of sitting next to a fire and listening to a story with the illusion of a child. The air was warm, making Crowley’s face feel chilly in comparison. He repressed a shiver, wishing to enter, but afraid of disturbing the peace. Everything was quiet, the only noise coming from the old wood and dying fire of the fireplace.

No — there was another noise, a subtle one. Crowley scanned the room, still not trespassing. His eyes stopped on the sofa in front of the fire. There was a figure there, casting a shadow that danced with every flicker of the flames. Crowley had not noticed it before, distracted as he was with the books. Then it dawned on him — a person was sleeping there.

Crowley stepped in. Just as he expected, the comforting warmth enveloped him, making him forget any nervousness left that he had because of Lord Gabriel’s experiences, like a long-forgotten nightmare. He got closer to the sofa and leaned on it.

It was Lord Angelo. He had fallen asleep while reading, judging by the book that threatened to fall from his hand at any given moment. He was resting his head on his other hand, arm on the sofa. His pale curls were dishevelled, as if he had run a hand through them too many times. Lord Angelo’s mouth was slightly opened and he was snoring a little. Crowley licked his lips, observing Lord Angelo’s pink ones, but quickly diverted his gaze to the rest of him.

He was the perfect picture of relaxation. His shoulders were down, the lines between his brows distended. Crowley noticed he was only wearing his linen shirt, with no waistcoat, and his sleeves were rolled up. Lord Angelo’s pale arms had even paler hair, glistening with the fire, just like his eyelashes. Crowley remembered how they fluttered when Lord Angelo talked, how he moved those delicate hands in emphasis. The way he smiled, and how his eyes sparkled impossibly when he did so. Crowley noticed that he was wearing spectacles, some tiny ridiculous ones, probably for reading, and it was so endearing it made Crowley’s heart combust. He desired to caress the faint lines around those eyes and wondered how it would feel like to kiss them. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to control his yearning.

He did what any other artist had done for centuries before him, and would continue after he was gone — he basked in the beauty of something that he would never reach and memorized every detail of it, to portray later in the privacy of his room, so he would get all his desires out of his soul, hoping to be free of them.

Lord Angelo stirred in his sleep, pulling Crowley out of his reverie. The painter realized now that he was standing there, watching someone else sleep like an apparition, like a demon about to take his soul into the night. He couldn’t be caught there — he needed to flee.

He saw a blanket lying at Lord Angelo’s side, and he covered the lord with it, putting the book aside. He carefully took the spectacles off, his fingers lightly brushing Lord Angelo’s face, but it wasn’t enough to wake him up.

Crowley stole a final glance to that heavenly image, and finally walked away, feeling like a burglar, stealing the picture of Lord Angelo’s sleeping state for himself. His fingers burnt where he had touched Lord Angelo — he had gotten too close to the sun, and judging by the way his heart still pounded, he was already paying the price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohohoho what is going? 👀 hehe
> 
> Title based on Muse's Sunburn. You can find the bread recipe [here](https://savoringthepast.net/2012/07/09/18th-century-no-knead-french-bread/)


	3. You’re just like a dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter today! As I have things to take care of later on 
> 
> <3

Crowley didn’t sleep that night. After going back to his bed, his eyes had fixed on the ceiling, unable to close them and have some rest. His mind was frantic — images of Lord Angelo sleeping were always there, in a corner of his mind, torturing him and keeping him awake. Crowley’s thoughts, trying to escape from the heat building in his belly, would eventually go to Lord Gabriel’s mysterious diary, sparking his anxiety. His mind would then jump back to Lord Angelo and so on, until the birds chirping outside made him acknowledge that it was time to get up.

His body was stiff as he cracked all the bones in his back with a groan. Crowley was not ready to start a full day again, to be chained to a state of consciousness. He just wanted to enter a coma for a couple of years. Crowley avoided looking at the open curtains that showed his canvas, as if not acknowledging it would make his responsibility vanish.

Running his hands over his face, he tried to come up with a list of goals to accomplish for the day to try to be responsible for once. He needed to start adding details to the painting or at least reflect on them. He also needed to perfect the pose without a model, which was going to be hard. He could ask Tracy or Newt for some mirrors, set them up to model himself. His body wasn’t as plump and divine as Lord Angelo’s, but it would have to suffice. Crowley could add verisimilitude by watching Lord Angelo and memorising the way his body looked while sitting. As if Crowley hadn’t already learned the shape of his body.

He groaned again, this time in frustration. The heavenly image of Lord Angelo sleeping wouldn’t leave his mind. He was haunted, slowly consumed by it. Crowley wanted to be a part of it, to enter into that picture as another element — like admiring a painting and wanting to be there in a landscape full of light. Yet again, the tip of his fingers burnt when he remembered brushing Lord Angelo’s soft skin, as a heretic touching something holy.

Because that’s what he was. Crowley was an intrusion in that house; a simple observer, not part of the picture. Something temporary that would vanish in a few weeks. A person that would quickly be forgotten by that angel on Earth the moment Lady Angelo came back and Lord Angelo went to Milan to get married.

Crowley knew that no matter how much he didn’t want to admit it, he liked the lord of the island in a more than friendly way. He was being pulled by a force, wanting to gravitate to him. Lord Angelo was like the sun — getting too close would mean to let himself burn. Crowley craved to do so if that would mean to feel the heat of Lord Angelo’s skin even if it was one more time.

Good thing that Lord Angelo only fancied women, judging by his marriage-to-be. Crowley, even if it was out of respect, needed to control his yearning, he thought for the thousandth time. He didn’t have a chance with the lord, so he could kill his desires and forget everything about it. No hope existed that could feed his fantasies.

Crowley leaned his head out of the window, the wind caressing his long red hair. The sun warmed his face, and squinting his eyes, he observed the terrain around the house. There was a beautiful garden that he had walked by several times already but had never really stopped by. The grass appeared to be soft and nice under the sun, and the flowers were stunning from there. He could grab his sketchbook and go there, and perhaps draw the plants and take a nap, waiting for the hour Lord Angelo would request his presence.

He tied his hair in a loose ponytail. It made him seem like he wasn’t trying hard to be handsome, but he perfectly knew that the look favoured him. He let one strand of hair free to complete the look. He always preferred to show his real hair instead of a wig — they made his scalp all itchy and uncomfortable. Satisfied upon checking himself in the mirror, Crowley changed into his daily clothes, this time putting on his red coat. Even if the sun was out, he couldn’t risk being chilly. He hated the cold.

With the sketchbook under his arm, he descended the stairs. Crowley was about to step out, but a delicious smell coming from the kitchen made him change his mind. He found a busy Tracy there and delicious looking bread on the counter. Without saying a word, he took a piece and ran away before Tracy managed to convince him to have a proper breakfast.

The day was as pleasant as it appeared to be from the window. There was a faint scent of summer in the air, filled with the sound of bugs and birds. In the distance, Crowley heard the waves coming and crashing against the coast. Despite being sleep-deprived, he found himself at rest in this place. He took his shoes and stockings out, eager to feel the grass under his feet. He glared at the ground, sending a clear message to all bugs to prevent them from doing anything funny — Crowley wouldn’t be able to survive if he found a spider on his feet.

Crowley walked further into the garden, leaving the shoes behind. He pointedly ignored the path and instead approached the bushes and flowers. They were well kept, pleasing Crowley greatly. He despised it when people didn’t care for their plants suitably. Noticing a nice apple tree, he sat down with his back resting on it. The wind made the leaves move, and the daylight going through them danced on Crowley’s face while he sketched.

Some of the flowers were in full bloom, filling his vision with colour even through the sunglasses. He hadn’t brought anything to paint them, though, so he settled on doing black and white representations of them.

A corner of his mind was still caught on Lord Angelo. More specifically, the outfit in which Crowley needed to represent him in the portrait. Crowley mulled over what the Lord usually wore. At first glance, it would seem that his clothes were simple, but it was far from the truth — Crowley had noticed that Lord Angelo wore shoes with a glistening surface. It was a small detail, but Crowley had greatly appreciated it. Lord Angelo always wore light colours, such as white, beige and light blues. His neck stock was vaporous as if he had a cloud wrapped around his neck. Crowley hadn’t seen him wear any wig or hat yet, so he would draw him without one. He much preferred Lord Angelo’s short hair either way, even though he wasn’t sure he would be able to represent its fluffiness faithfully.

Crowley wished to add a pattern on his waistcoat — something delicate, soft, that would fit Lord Angelo perfectly. He didn’t usually add that kind of detail when painting, but Crowley wanted to show the extent of his expertise in this portrait. Lord Angelo would eventually see it, as Crowley’s secret wouldn’t last forever. Crowley wanted to impress him, make him admire his talent.

He absent-mindedly looked at his flower drawings. Perhaps he could use these flowers as a pattern, painting them with gold colour. It would fit perfectly with the blue tones of the clothes and Lord Angelo’s sparkling eyes.

Crowley’s eyelids were beginning to be too heavy. The atmosphere was warm and his brain slow, the sound of bugs and birds were lulling him to sleep. He tried, uselessly, to stay awake, but last night’s emotions and his lack of sleep won. His coal rolled out of his grasp onto the grass the moment the world faded to black.

“Well, what do we have here?”

Crowley’s eyes slowly opened. The sunshine had visibly moved on from his page, so some time had passed since he had fallen asleep. His mind was hazy, and he looked around, trying to find the source of the voice.

Crowley found a white figure standing in front of him. He focused on it, and the realization of who he was finished the job of awakening him. He straightened his back, and passed a hand through his face (was he drooling? Did Lord Angelo just see him drooling on himself like a baby?) and cleared his throat.

“Uh, hullo, sir.”

Lord Angelo was sporting what could only be described as a bastardly smile. His eyes, those beautiful and impossible hazel ones, were sparkling. He was even showing his adorable dimples. Crowley believed that whoever had decided to make Lord Angelo this gorgeous had done so just to make fun of Crowley. It was simply not fair to show him an actual angel when he had his defences down, freshly awakened.

“Have you rested well?”

Lord Angelo’s voice was gentle, but it was clear that he was somehow mocking him. Crowley’s brain was still not catching up. He realized he had his mouth opened, and he snapped it shut, but then opened it again. He had to say something.

“Uh, yes, I suppose. Weather is nice.”

How brilliant, to mention the weather. Great conversation skills right there.

Lord Angelo turned around and, without any kind of warning for poor Crowley’s soul, he sat by his side. Crowley’s mouth wasn’t going to close any time soon — he knew he was watching him as if he were an apparition, but he couldn’t control himself. Lord Angelo momentarily closed his eyes, enjoying the fresh air, and then opened them again to look at Crowley. He was sitting close, but they weren’t as close as they had been that day under the rain. Still, why was a lord acting just like himself, sitting on the ground?

“It is nice.”

His voice was lower now.

Crowley swallowed, his throat bobbing. He wondered if Lord Angelo could see the effect he had on him, how nervous and excited he was by his presence and proximity. Crowley hoped he didn’t — he felt sufficiently embarrassed as it was, caught sleeping between the flowers as if they were in some sort of fairy tale. Crowley needed to look amazing, handsome, cool, and Lord Angelo was frustrating all of his plans.

Crowley couldn’t tear his eyes from Lord Angelo’s face — his golden eyelashes, the way Lord Angelo stared at him, practically seductively. His lips were still forming a smile like they were sharing a secret that only the two of them knew.

That thought made Crowley’s brain freeze. Secret. He had a secret, one he had promised Lady Angelo not to reveal, and there he was, sitting outside in the garden drawing in plain view. He faked a cough and sneaked his sketchbook to his side, where Lord Angelo wouldn’t be able to see it. His heart hammered against his ribcage, afraid that his carelessness had messed everything up.

Crowley sneaked a glimpse of his face, but it didn’t look like Lord Angelo had noticed his poor furtive attempts to hide the drawings. At least he had them opened in the pages where he had drawn flowers and not in Lord Angelo’s multiple sketches. That would have been way too embarrassing for his heart to resist.

Lord Angelo had closed his eyes again, basking in the pleasant scent of the garden. Crowley, as he had done before, admired the way he could bask and enjoy nature in such a manner. Crowley ached to show him the drawings, to be praised about them, but not only his promise to Lady Angelo kept him from doing so, but also the fact that those drawings were in black and white. Crowley couldn’t imagine Lord Angelo appreciating the absence of colour — how could a being made of light love something dark like that?

Like him?

He buried the feeling of dread that started to creep in his throat. Those thoughts were pessimistic and useless. Again, he reminded himself of the role he was there to perform.

“I think it would be best to postpone our usual walk to tomorrow, as it is quite late.”

Crowley glanced at the sky, and he had to agree with Lord Angelo — dusk was starting to fall, and if they started walking, the night would fall on them before they returned home. He did his best to hide his disappointment. Because of his impromptu nap in the garden, he had lost a day of basking in the presence of Lord Angelo.

His brain bolted when Lord Angelo squeezed his shoulder briefly, as a sign of comfort. Crowley hadn’t expected that contact, even if it was a brief one — his blood rushed through his veins.

“You’re right, my lord. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

Oh, how Crowley hated how that sounded like a question, as he was pleading for Lord Angelo’s mercy, hoping he would say yes.

Lord Angelo stood up, and for a second, Crowley thought he would offer his hand to help Crowley stand. It had surely been Crowley’s imagination, as the moment passed and Lord Angelo buried his hand in a pocket, fiddling with something.

“Of course. Have a good night, Mr Crowley.”

Lord Angelo nodded and walked away towards the house. Crowley was still utterly confused — what was that? _Lord_ Angelo, sitting under a tree with him, contemplating some flowers he had surely seen a thousand times with no reason whatsoever? Crowley realized with his face burning hot that he actually didn’t know how long Lord Angelo had been there, _watching him sleep._ He worried one more time about his drooling and — _oh, please no_ — his snoring. Did he snore? He wasn’t even sure.

There was no use in staying there and continuing to panic. It would be far wiser to get up, grab something to nibble from the kitchen and head to bed. And that’s what he did, after a minute of holding his face between his hands and groaning in embarrassment.

===

This time, Crowley was lucky enough as to fall asleep immediately — his anxious mind had been merciful enough to let him rest. Unfortunately, a storm raged on that very night, and the house, being as old as it was, creaked and complained about the abuse it was suffering. Rain poured and made a ticking sound against the windows and the ceiling grumbled like it was about to fall off. Crowley woke up with the sensation that he was again in a ship, but this time in a sinking one — he nearly fell from the bed imagining he was about to drown in a cold, grey sea.

Crowley’s complaints were added to the sounds around him. Why couldn't he just have one, just _one_ night of nice rest? He was going to have shadows below his eyes, and it wouldn’t make him look very good, even if they were going to be partially hidden behind his glasses.

The concert the house was giving him made it impossible to fall back to sleep. His mind, ever so kind, reminded him of that glorious library he had visited the night before, with an angel sleeping on a couch. He could perhaps get up and head there, see if that miraculous vision would again be granted to him, or at least he could find comfort between the books. Crowley wasn’t much of a reader, but there was a calm and warm atmosphere in that library that could perhaps lull him to sleep.

With that decision made, he took a spare blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. It wasn’t precisely cold, but the sound of rain made Crowley shiver, remembering that fateful day with Lord Angelo. Either way, Crowley was very sensitive to cold. For once, he gave more importance to his comfort than the subject of looking attractive — he had already been surprised taking a nap outside, what could be worse than that?

Crowley walked along the hall towards the library, trying not to drag his feet too much. His eyes fought to be closed, but he fought back — he couldn’t just fall asleep in the middle of the hall, and either way, he would be awakened by the storm again.

Surprisingly, a fair amount of light was pouring from the open library door. Unlike the previous night, the fire was not dying, as Crowley could hear the crack of the flames from the door. He was uncertain — should he enter either way?

“Come on in.”

Crowley jumped, surprised by the sound of a voice coming from inside. It was Lord Angelo — he had surely heard him come. Crowley frowned; Lord Angelo had excellent hearing, to be able to hear his steps in the middle of a storm.

As instructed, he shyly stepped inside. The room was as warm and welcoming as he expected, and Crowley relaxed his grip on the blanket. His eyes studied his surroundings, and just like the night before, someone was sitting on the sofa in front of the fire. This time, though, Lord Angelo was not asleep. He turned around, his gaze on Crowley. The fire was reflected on his little reading glasses, and the light gave his hair the aspect of a halo. Lord Angelo’s eyes were dark, flickers of the flames dancing in them — it made Crowley think of the storm raging outside.

He sat on the armrest of the couch, not daring to be closer to his host. Crowley glanced at Lord Angelo, feeling guilty about stepping into his private space when he obviously wanted to be left alone. Lord Angelo had a book in his hands, a different one from the night before. He returned to his reading the moment Crowley sat. Had he finished the other one already? Crowley couldn’t help but admire Lord Angelo’s fast reading pace. He had his brow furrowed, and he was pouting as if what he was reading wasn’t of his liking. Crowley leaned forward a bit, trying to peek at the cover and see what it was about, but nearly fell off the couch. He recovered from the loss of balance quick enough, and he fixed his glance to the fire, trying to act as if nothing had happened.

They remained silent for a moment, with the creaking of the fire and the house surrounding them. Crowley was hypnotized by the flames, sleepiness drowning him again. He shifted a bit, enjoying the warmth coming from the fire.

“Did you perhaps come here for a book?”

Lord Angelo’s voice woke Crowley from his slumber for a second time that day. He blinked, trying to remember where he was. Lord Angelo was staring at him, with doubt in his eyes, and Crowley realized he had just walked in and settled in front of the fire without a word of explanation. He really ought to polish his social skills. He had felt guilty stepping in there but not enough to remember to mutter a word of excuse.

“Oh, no, that’s alright, thank you, sir.”

Lord Angelo slowly nodded, his insecurity apparent. Crowley repressed a groan — he really shouldn’t have come here. He was invading Lord Angelo’s privacy, and he was clearly not welcome. Perhaps he should have taken a book as an excuse for his presence there, but he had already said no to it and it would be too awkward to accept one now.

The moment Crowley was about to get up, mutter an apology and disappear to where he came from, Lord Angelo closed his book, determined, making Crowley jump and nearly fall from the couch for good.

“Well, I have a nice red I’ve been meaning to try but didn’t have the company for it, as my dear mother doesn’t enjoy alcohol very much. We could try it if you’d like.”

That was a turn of events Crowley had not expected. He nodded and, bewildered, he watched as Lord Angelo stood up, left his book on a shelf and went to retrieve the bottle. He came back with two glasses and a little smile on his lips. He still appeared to be uncertain about something, but Crowley couldn’t imagine what was bothering him.

Lord Angelo put the glasses on the table in front of them and served the wine. The red, deep colour left a shadow on the table that moved around when Lord Angelo picked both glasses and handed one of them to Crowley. The painter took it, insecure about what to do with it.

“Cheers,” Lord Angelo said, a bit timidly. Then, without a trace of the doubt in his voice showing in his gesture, took a big sip of wine. He moaned, delighted, and closed his eyes to savour the flavour.

Crowley’s face turned red as the wine — he hoped Lord Angelo would attribute it to the fire. Crowley’s mind was like cotton and he couldn’t think straight — what in heaven had that been? The sound that came from Lord Angelo’s mouth had been nothing but erotic. Was the wine _that_ good? Crowley’s knuckles were white from holding the glass too hard, and he made the conscious decision to loosen his grip before he snapped it and made a disaster of himself. He shifted on his seat, now for a different kind of reason.

Crowley needed to focus his attention elsewhere. He sipped on the wine, and yes, it was excellent, probably the best he had ever tasted — still, he didn’t moan. He glimpsed at Lord Angelo, who had finally relaxed and looked content.

“Good, isn’t it? Drinking is always best with some company. I hope the wine is to your taste.”

Crowley nodded. “Oh, yes, it’s very good. I like the taste. Very good indeed.”

Lord Angelo chuckled, and he drank again. This time, Crowley knew what to expect and he braced himself, ineffectively. Lord Angelo made those sounds again, sending shivers down Crowley’s spine. This was no good. He was going to get hard at this rate.

Measures needed to be taken, so Crowley took a decision — he gulped all the wine in one go and choked on it.

Lord Angelo stood up, leaving the glass on the table, and walked around the couch towards Crowley. He took the glass out of Crowley’s hands and patted him gently on the back, trying to help him somehow.

“Oh my, are you alright?”

Crowley was not alright. Crowley wanted to walk into the ocean and never come back.

“Yeah, yeah” — he coughed a bit more — “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine to me, Mr Crowley! Do you need a glass of water?”

Crowley shook his head, trying to calm his breathing. Lord Angelo’s proximity was not helping.

“No, it won’t be necessary, it’s fine.”

Crowley swallowed and cleared his throat. Lord Angelo, observing that Crowley was indeed fine, stepped back. He nodded and returned to his seat.

Then, the lord shocked Crowley again — he took his glass and without a second thought, also gulped all of his wine down. Lord Angelo coughed a little but didn’t choke as Crowley did. He looked at Crowley, that was watching him with his mouth opened, and laughed.

“Now we are even.”

Crowley must have been dreaming. Did Lord Angelo really imitate Crowley’s ungraceful ways of drinking?

Crowley couldn’t tone down the grin that spread on his face.

“You are not quite as I expected, my lord”.

Lord Angelo huffed at Crowley’s sarcastic tone, but Crowley could see the hidden little smile on his face.

“So what were you expecting, then? A serious and cold man? I know how to have a little fun myself.”

Lord Angelo wiggled, satisfied with his declaration, and straightened his waistcoat as if to give himself importance. Crowley’s grin widened, amused at Lord Angelo’s little act of rebellion. The alcohol was starting to go to his head, and he slouched on the couch, his limbs all relaxed.

“Yes, exactly. A strict and unmerciful Lord. Like an angel descending from Heaven to punish the sinful mortals. You even have the looks for it.”

Lord Angelo’s burst of laughter resonated in the library. “Punishing angel, me? I am not quite sure I have the physical form for it.”

To Crowley’s horror, Lord Angelo patted his belly with a sad expression.

“Come on, angel, you do look heavenly. And you drank that wine like a warrior, while I just choked on it.”

Too late Crowley realized what he had just said. He saw Lord Angelo’s surprise, and before he could say anything, Crowley jumped out of his seat to serve them both more wine. He needed to drink and forget what had just spilt from the tongue, and his sudden gesture would serve as a distraction from it.

Of course, it didn’t work.

“Angel…?”

Lord Angelo was beaming. Crowley gulped, and paused from pouring the wine, his brain practically steaming trying to come up with an excuse.

“Um, yes, angel, as you know, your family name. Lord Angelo.”

Lord Angelo carefully nodded. “Of course. It doesn’t bother me, by the way.”

“What?”

“That you called me angel. It didn’t bother me.”

Crowley was going to combust. He glanced at Lord Angelo and saw how his cheeks had turned red. The warmth of the fire, or perhaps the wine, surely. Crowley’s throat was dry. He finished pouring the wine, miraculously not tipping over the glasses. He handed the glass to Lord Angelo, careful not to graze his hand by accident — he would have not survived it. Crowley took his own glass and returned to the armrest.

This time, he made sure to drink the wine like a person and not like some wild animal. They enjoyed the wine in silence, but at some point, the alcohol started to take an effect — Crowley wouldn’t be able to remember later on at what moment they started to discuss sea creatures.

“I’m telling you, angel, the sunfish is a bloody idiot. They wouldn’t even know they’re a fish if you asked them.”

Lord Angelo shook his head vehemently. “I’m sure you’re wrong, my dear. They are _biiig_ buggers, it’s impossible their intelligence isn’t remarkable.” Lord Angelo frowned as if he was trying to remember how words worked. “Like those other big creatures. The ear ones. You know —”

Crowley wasn’t sure he knew. “The ear ones?”

Lord Angelo made a gesture with his hands to indicate the big size of whichever animal he was thinking of, and nearly sent all of his wine flying away. There was no fountain of wine. Crowley realized, a bit too late, that it was because there was no wine in his glass. He stood up, lost his balance for a second, and poured some wine into Lord Angelo’s glass while the latter still tried to remember the animal’s name.

“And they have — oh, thank you, dear — they have a trunk. And they’re terribly sweet.”

_You are terribly sweet,_ was what Crowley thought. He didn’t say it out loud — he wasn’t as drunk as that.

Then it dawned on him.

“Elephants?”

“Yes!” Lord Angelo beamed at him, happy beyond measure at the fact that Crowley understood what he had been talking about.

The lord took a sip from his glass and continued. “So, these elephants, they are _very_ smart. They know where water is.”

Crowley wasn’t all that convinced. “I also know where water is.”

Lord Angelo nodded. “I’m sure you do.”

“And you know what else is in the water?”

Lord Angelo was interested, his eyes sparkling. “Sunfish?”

“No, no, enough with the sunfish. They have pea brains. I’m talking about _whales.”_

“Oh, yes, that’s a big bugger, not like the ear animal.”

“Elephants. Anyway, whales have big brains. Big city brains. They are smart and they also know where water is. And other stuff.”

“Don’t they sing?”

“Sing?” Crowley was shocked. “How could they sing underwater? Are you thinking about birds or something?”

Lord Angelo pouted, considering it. Crowley was overwhelmed with the desire of kissing that pout away, so he occupied his mouth with drinking more wine.

“They aren’t birds. They don’t even make nests. But they sing.”

Crowley nodded as if he had heard a pearl of great wisdom. Another thought occurred to him.

“Do you think ducks have ears?”

That greatly confused Lord Angelo. Crowley watched as his host turned around in his sitting, getting closer to Crowley, who was still perched in the armchair like some big bird.

“What is your point?”

“My point is. My point. Is. That they are birds. So they must sing. But they need ears to hear other ducks. So they must have them right?”

Lord Angelo rested his head on his free hand, elbow on his leg. He was seriously considering the question and that made Crowley’s heart flutter.

“It would be very rude if they didn’t listen to each other’s singing.”

“Yes! Exactly!”

The conversation kept transforming. They argued about food — Lord Angelo had strong opinions on desserts that Crowley listened to with a sappy smile on his face — and about books and more animals. Crowley couldn’t even tell when it had been the last time he had such a great time having a conversation with another person, let alone with someone of a higher status than him.

Lord Angelo was amazingly smart in a way that was comfortable to be with. Crowley had met way too many intelligent people that needed to drag down others to show their own value. Lord Angelo wasn’t like that — he was soft in his opinions, he listened to Crowley and considered his point of view. They might be drunk and Crowley was perhaps romanticising too much, but he was sure he wasn’t imagining the attentive way Lord Angelo listened to him, how he tilted his head ever so slightly when Crowley ranted about ducks again.

The best thing was that Lord Angelo was also comfortable with him. Crowley could see it in the way Lord Angelo joked with him, with no worry lines surrounding his eyes. Lord Angelo was relaxed on the couch, very much like in the way Crowley had seen him sleep.

Silence settled between them again, this time a comfortable one — a silence between friends. Was it even acceptable to think they were now friends?

Crowley’s eyes kept wanting to close, but he didn’t want to fall asleep there. He preferred to keep talking with Lord Angelo and enjoying his presence. They hadn’t been able to walk together because of Crowley’s nap, and he couldn’t make the same mistake again. This time with Lord Angelo was his, and his only.

Lord Angelo tugged at his waistcoat.

“I wish I was wearing something more comfortable.”

Their wine bottle had long been finished, and at this point, Crowley just blurted out whatever he was thinking.

“But you look amazing in that, angel.”

Lord Angelo turned red, his eyes fluttering. Crowley wanted to bury his nose in Lord Angelo’s neck, see if he could make him blush like that again.

“I simply wish to look as comfortable as you do in those clothes, my dear.”

Crowley checked his outfit, a bit surprised. He hadn’t really considered what he was wearing until that moment, as distracted as he was with Lord Angelo. Crowley had been wearing a simple black nightgown that made him appear way more slender than normally as if he were swimming in it. Crowley immediately wrapped himself with the blanket, trying to hide the horrifying gown. Was he condemned to show Lord Angelo only his worst outfits or dirty clothes? The gown was as stylish as a gown could be, true, but it still didn’t look great.

Lord Angelo chuckled. “Next time, I can put on my own gown and we’ll be even.”

Newt time. There was going to be a next time — Crowley’s insides roared with happiness. They would do this again, enjoy each other’s companionship, not only because Crowley had been hired to walk with him, but because Lord Angelo did appreciate his presence. Crowley grinned, giddy with happiness.

“Next time, promise?”

Lord Angelo gifted him with a smile as wide as Crowley’s own as confirmation. All Crowley wanted was to caress his dimples. Crowley remembered Lord Angelo’s moans and he shivered, but he filed the thought for later.

Crowley yawned.

“Are you sleepy, my dear?”

Lord Angelo’s voice indicated that he was still under the influence of alcohol, as it was unnecessarily fond. Crowley nodded, and closed his eyes for a moment, letting his head rest on the couch. His body was in a weird sideways position, and when he fell asleep, he slid down on the couch. Lord Angelo caught him before he ended up on the ground.

Crowley faintly noticed that his head was now resting on a very comfortable and soft place, warm and with a charming scent. A feather touch brushed the hair off of his forehead, but his mind was already drifting away.

That night, Crowley had the nicest dreams he’d had for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken by the song Just like heaven by The Cure


	4. The fire it ignites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter today as well! It's my birthday and I have plans for later :P (no worries, everything will be covid-safe)

Crowley’s eyes flickered under the sun. He was sure that at the end of the day he would have more freckles painting his face. He shielded his face with his hand, in vain — not even his glasses were enough for the raging sunshine in midday.

“Come on, Mr Crowley, the water is at the most perfect temperature.”

Crowley greatly admired how Lord Angelo’s beauty evolved at different times of the day, sunlight now surrounding him and making him shine. He ached to follow him, to approach him as he was telling Crowley to do — alas, he knew it was wiser not to do so.

The damage his soul was taking because of the image before his eyes was enough. Crowley feared that he was going to trip and fall in the water if he approached Lord Angelo, his aura blinding him.

They had decided to go down the coast, instead of just walking around the grounds of Eden Park. Waves crashed with a gentle sound, the salty wind filling Crowley’s lungs. He had taken off his shoes and stockings, and his toes wiggled against the hot sand. His feet were burning but he really couldn’t let himself walk into the ocean.

In the sea, there was an angel.

Lord Angelo hadn’t hesitated to take off his shoes and — Someone save Crowley — his stockings too, revealing the skin underneath. He had stepped into the water, yelping at the coldness of it. When he got used to it, he closed his eyes while he felt the wind and sun against his face, relishing on the wonders of nature as he usually did.

It was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen. But again, everything Lord Angelo did had that same effect on him. 

Then Lord Angelo had decided to blatantly lie about the water’s temperature — judging by the goosebumps on his skin that Crowley was trying to ignore — to convince Crowley to enter with him. 

Crowley was desperately trying not to become obsessed with their conversation last night. He was not over it, and he probably would never be. His mind kept replaying everything they had said, the way Lord Angelo had smiled at him and joked with him. How Crowley, with a slip of his tongue, had called him an angel and Lord Angelo had graciously accepted the nickname, letting him keep using it. How Lord Angelo had called him “my dear” several times.

Something he had not repeated all day.

And the most crucial of details: Crowley was fairly sure he had fallen asleep on Lord Angelo’s lap. He remembered how comfortable he had been, the lord’s scent evolving him; the pressure of Lord Angelo’s fingers against his skin. Hours later, when the room started to grow cold, he woke up, finding himself alone in the library. Lord Angelo was nowhere to be seen as if everything that had happened the day before had been nothing but a dream. Crowley had then retired to his room, confused and lonely.

The rest of the day had gone by without incident, until this fatidical walk. Crowley had been going around in circles inside his mind, trying to decide if it was a good idea to ask Lord Angelo about it. But what would he say? _Oh, excuse me, I was wondering if perhaps I had stupidly fallen asleep on your lovely lap last night, and then you caressed my skin oh so tenderly. Thank you very much._

It was out of the question. Judging by everything that had been going around in his head, it had probably been a dream either way. Crowley must have fallen asleep on the couch and Lord Angelo, offended by this lack of tact, had gone off to his bedroom. 

“Mr Crowley, I will go there myself and push you to the water if you don’t come here.”

Crowley smiled at Lord Angelo’s hollow threat.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming.”

Crowley sighed. He got it bad and was now realizing at which extent. He walked towards Lord Angelo, who had the nerve to become prettier with every step Crowley took. Just as he expected, the water was _not_ fine, and he made a sound which he profoundly regretted two seconds later. 

“Eeek! This is bloody awful! Why did you make me come here, angel? I am cold!”

Lord Angelo pouted. “But it’s such a nice day, and the sand was surely too hot to be standing there barefoot. I’m sure you’re grateful that I convinced you.”

Without any mercy on Crowley’s heart, he wiggled with his entire body. Lord Angelo’s hair was curlier than usual because of the sea wind, and he was showing his forearms again. Crowley, trying to distract himself from staring unprofessionally at his host, diverted his gaze to his own feet, which were certainly thankful to be in cold water. Crowley could see the coarse sand surrounding his feet moving rhythmically with the waves. He noticed a little shell coming his way, pushed by the current — he was about to bend over and grab it when a splash of cold water drenched him.

At first, Crowley thought it had been a big wave, but he then saw the mischievous smile Lord Angelo was unsuccessfully trying to hide. The bastard.

“Hey!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you looked rather flushed so I was trying to refresh you.”

Crowley had his mouth opened. The _nerve._ Lord Angelo noticed Crowley’s expression and, too late, tried to run away, but Crowley was faster and splashed him with water. Lord Angelo burst into laughter and ran his hands through his now wet hair.

“Alright, yes, I probably deserved that.” Lord Angelo’s eyes shone.

Crowley realized, far too late, that now Lord Angelo was drenched. Meaning his outfit was wet too, sticking to his body, the linen part of this shirt now see-through. Crowley’s throat was now very dry and not because of seawater. His eyes followed Lord Angelo’s shape and ached to touch him. He was painfully aware of how close Lord Angelo was; a mere three steps away. Crowley could easily run towards him, kiss him and hold him, feel that softness underneath his fingers. How would Lord Angelo react? Would he push him away, reject him as he feared, or would he kiss back? Would he moan like he did when he tasted the wine? Crowley was tired of getting to know Lord Angelo through only his sight and not his other senses.

No, Crowley needed to take hold of his thoughts, or else he would get hard and let what was in his mind show too visibly. He discreetly adjusted his trousers.

Crowley was beginning to shiver, as he was also drenched, and the breeze was cold against his skin. At least that helped with his other problem. Lord Angelo noticed his shivering.

“My dear, we can go sit down on the sand for a bit if that would please you.”

Crowley nearly tripped and fell into the water. _My dear?_ It was the first time that Lord Angelo used that endearment with him that day. Crowley chose to ignore it for his own survival and walked back to the sand, followed by a much too happy Lord Angelo. 

He sat down with a sigh of relief, as the sand that was far too hot before was now warming him. Crowley realized too late that the sand was sticking to his clothes. He should have taken them off before stepping into the water, but there was no way that he could have foreseen Lord Angelo splashing him.

Speaking of the bastard, Lord Angelo sat down at his side, his clothes getting dirty with sand too. His hair was dripping, and he looked the happiest Crowley had seen him so far. Crowley ached to paint him like this and frame the drawing for himself alone to admire. 

“That was very bold of you, to splash me like that, Mr Crowley.”

Crowley grinned. Of course, it was to be expected that he would have taken his revenge; he was indeed bold, and he was capable of doing other evil things. Such as drawing someone far beyond his reach when that someone knew nothing about it.

Crowley pointedly ignored the guilt that twisted in his gut. He hated that he had to hide the true motive behind his visit from Lord Angelo. He just wanted to tell him everything, confess that he was a painter under a strange contract made by Lord Angelo’s mother. But Crowley had promised Lady Angelo to keep it a secret, and Crowley needed the money he was going to earn from this. Plus, Lord Angelo would eventually know everything about it.

If Crowley was being honest, he would admit that there was another reason for keeping the secret. He was scared that Lord Angelo would reject the friendship that was blossoming between the two, betrayed by Crowley’s dishonesty. He wasn’t technically lying, per se, he was simply hiding parts of the truth; either way, Crowley was being eaten alive by his guilt. 

He decided, there and then, with Lord Angelo talking about a book he was reading flapping his hands around and sparkling eyes, that he was going to be the first person to see the finished portrait. Crowley owed him that much. 

“And well, I do think that some things are better learned with practice, but I am afraid I am not brave enough for it.”

Crowley snapped back to reality, feeling guilty now that he hadn’t listened to the last part of the conversation.

“I am sure you are brave enough”, he said honestly.

Lord Angelo squinted his eyes at him. “Do you know how to swim?”

“I do, in fact. Excellent swimmer, that’s what I am.” Crowley remembered his dive in the sea the day he arrived and grimaced. 

“Would you perhaps be interested in teaching me?”

Crowley bolted. Teaching Lord Angelo how to swim? Getting to see him many more times drenched, a vision under the sun?

He would sell his soul for it.

“Oh yes, absolutely no problem, angel.”

Lord Angelo granted him one of his most charming smiles. Then something occurred to him, making him frown.

“But it wouldn’t be fair for you to teach me something and give you nothing back. How could I return the favour?”

 _Kiss me,_ Crowley didn’t say.

“I used to practise fencing years ago. Perhaps I could relearn some things,” he said instead, recalling what Lady Angelo had mentioned.

The light in Lord Angelo’s eyes faded a bit at that, and his smile decreased in levels of happiness. The guilt monster that now lived in Crowley’s stomach roared — the proposition had been a mistake. He was about to dismiss the subject when Lord Angelo interrupted him.

“Alright.”

Lord Angelo wouldn’t even look at him now. His gaze wasn’t leaving his fussing hands, and nervous energy emanated from him. 

“Angel, if you don’t want to, it’s fine, we can do something else—”

“I’m sure. I can teach you, there’s no problem. We could start with the basics tomorrow if you want.”

Crowley wasn’t all that convinced, but it was better not to push it. “Alright then.”

A tense silence fell between them. Crowley struggled, trying to come up with something to make Lord Angelo smile again just like before. “You know, I was kicked out of fencing class.”

It worked. Lord Angelo stopped avoiding his gaze and looked at him, evident curiosity in his eyes. 

“Oh my, what did you do?”

Crowley, proud that he was able to distract him, puffed out his chest. 

“I was a rascal, planting discord in everyone’s heart. I made them fight each other without permission, and I wouldn’t listen to my teacher’s instructions. I always asked questions putting in doubt everything they tried to teach me.” Crowley shook his head, remembering those times. “My father was so mad at me, and at one point, my teacher couldn’t take it anymore. He kicked me out, told me to never come back again, and to feign an injury or something so my father wouldn’t try to make me go back again.”

Lord Angelo laughed. “Those poor companions of yours, how much they must have suffered.”

Crowley dismissed it with his hand. “Bah, they were a bunch of rich kids that thought they were better than everyone else. They totally deserved it.”

“Rich kid, like me?”

Crowley looked at him in the eyes, suddenly serious. “No, angel, not like you. You’re different.”

Lord Angelo’s expression softened, and he turned his head to stare at the waves. Crowley took this chance to study him, as he was supposed to do — discreetly and professionally. He stole glances at him, going over again at the shape of his face, the way he quirked his lips slightly when something pleased him. Crowley’s eyes followed the lines of his body, how it looked while sitting there on the sand; Lord Angelo managed to sit in a very proper manner even in this situation, his hands folded in front of him. He could see his calves and how Lord Angelo’s skin rose in goosebumps because of the cold breeze. 

Crowley was well aware that he could easily drop his head, let his body follow gravity’s pull and rest on that angelic lap. It would take him just a second to do so, silence his brain and do it, simply. He already pictured it — Lord Angelo could run his fingers through his hair, make delighted noises at it. Crowley could look at him from that position, admire his face and chin and round cheeks, make him blush if he dared. He could bury his nose in Lord Angelo’s stomach, take his scent in. Listen to Lord Angelo go on about books and desserts and whatever he wanted to talk about with that lovely voice of his. 

Instead, Crowley put his head on his knees and sighed, hugging himself.

“My dear, are you alright?”

Crowley tried not to mentally kick himself too much. How many times could he worry Lord Angelo in one day? Straightening his neck, he glimpsed at Lord Angelo, attempting to look put together. “Perfectly fine. A bit tired is all.”

Lord Angelo carefully nodded. Crowley hated to see him worry about him, and he wanted to tell him that Crowley was simply a disaster. Instead, he opted to smile, hoping that it would be enough reassurance. Lord Angelo smiled back at him in a way that made Crowley feel like he was floating on a cloud for the rest of the day. 

===

“No, dear, that is not how you should be standing. You are cocking your hip way too much.”

Crowley was mentally writing his will at this point. It was morning and the birds, oblivious to Crowley’s suffering, were happily chirping outside. Lord Angelo and he had met on the entrance of the house, as always; but Lord Angelo had shown him an external room that Crowley hadn’t seen before in the back of the house, occupying garden space. It was even larger than the living room and had no furniture. Instead, there was a display of diverse weapons for training — the main one was the small sword, unsurprisingly, but there were other weapons like daggers. 

Lord Angelo had handed him a small sword with the point ending in a button. They had been practising a guard stance for the last few minutes, and Crowley was going to die. It had been quite some time since Crowley had last fenced and it was painfully obvious, but Lord Angelo was being patient and kind, explaining the basics to him in a soft voice.

The problem was that Lord Angelo thought it necessary to touch him lightly so Crowley would stand correctly. The stance wasn’t all that complicated, but Crowley couldn’t help but be distracted by those feathery touches, correcting his back posture, his legs, his hips. 

“Now that’s better. You put your weight on your rear foot and your trunk leaning slightly back.” He placed his hand in front of Crowley’s stomach, making him lean backwards as he was instructed, even though what Crowley ached for was to lean forwards to make contact. 

Lord Angelo was a constant presence surrounding him. Crowley could feel the intensity of Lord Angelo’s gaze on him, studying him, correcting his posture, again and again, every time Crowley broke and shifted his weight. A drop of sweat went down his neck, and he shivered. They had only practised guard positions, but he was already tired. Lord Angelo had been the one moving around, showing him how to place his body and behave, and he didn’t appear to be even a bit tired. 

“My dear, you really need to strengthen your legs. You will not last much in an actual fight like this. You need to be resistant and secure in your position.”

Crowley was tired of that position, to be honest. His muscles ached and burned, demanding why was he treating them in such a manner. He was made to paint, not exercise. It was a wonder how Lord Angelo endured being in the same posture without breaking a sweat. He recalled that supposedly it had been a long time since Lord Angelo had practised; how good was he in his golden times? It didn’t escape Crowley that it meant that Lord Angelo was stronger than he admitted, but he couldn’t let himself give in to many distractions.

Or else he would make his teacher angry.

Lord Angelo didn’t get really cross, if Crowley was being honest. But he did have a stern expression, a serious light in his eyes that made Crowley not dare to do other than what was instructed.

He could talk, though.

“Goddamnit,” Crowley said, shaking his pained arm. 

“Mr Crowley! Don’t you dare blaspheme in God’s name in my _salle_!”

Crowley grinned. He had forgotten practically everything he had ever learned about fencing, true, but there was something he would always remember: rules. So he could break them.

And the rule he most liked to break was the prohibition of cursing and blaspheming in God’s name.

Lord Angelo reprimanded him every time he did, of course — but it didn’t escape Crowley how he was trying not to smile. So of course, Crowley kept doing it.

Time passed and they didn’t do anything different from the guarding positions. It was clear that Lord Angelo thought that Crowley needed to relearn the basics, build some strength, before actually practising. It wasn’t what Crowley had planned, but he didn’t want to question Lord Angelo and gain a reprimand. Either way, another matter was worrying Crowley.

Since he had proposed fencing instruction, Lord Angelo had shown some cold distance between them. The light in his eyes, normally beaming, was now extinguished. Crowley was sure he had offended him somehow but wasn’t sure on how to broach the subject.

“Rest.”

Crowley groaned and let himself fall to the floor, feeling more than seeing Lord Angelo’s eye roll.

“Come on, that was nothing. You have only been standing in that position for twenty minutes.”

Lord Angelo sat down to his right, observing him with amused eyes. A wave of relief washed over Crowley when he saw such a familiar expression in the lord’s eyes. The usual light was still faint, though.

Crowley cleared his throat, trying to gather all the bravery he could. He was scared of pushing Lord Angelo away, for him to start treating Crowley like a stranger again. He had to tread carefully and not trespass over an unspoken line.

“Is something wrong?”

Lord Angelo shook his head, confused. “No, why?”

Crowley averted his gaze, and instead focused on the ceiling. “You look a bit… out of spirits, since I mentioned fencing.”

“Ah.”

Lord Angelo didn’t utter another word. Crowley had messed everything up, for sure. Before he could apologize, Lord Angelo spoke again.

“I must apologize if I have been a bit… absentminded. Swordfighting brings back old and not quite fond memories, and I have been a bit troubled by them. But don’t you worry, it won’t get in the middle of me teaching you.”

Crowley nodded. He could perfectly understand being troubled by past experiences, but it did hurt that Lord Angelo thought he was asking just because of their improvised classes, and not out of concern. 

“Can I ask —”

“Well, that’s quite enough practising for today, isn’t it? Perhaps should I make a bit of a demonstration, before we head home?”

Crowley left his mouth hanging open, surprised by the interruption. It wasn’t usual for Lord Angelo to do such a discourteous thing, and he incredulously watched as Lord Angelo stood up with a fluid motion and grabbed one of the small swords put aside. 

He stretched his wrists in circular motions, getting used to the weight of the sword. He also stretched his neck and squared his shoulders. Lord Angelo then looked at Crowley, who had been watching him without any shame, and gestured with his head. Crowley quickly stood up, understanding that he needed to be in the same position as the other.

Lord Angelo bowed, and Crowley did the same. He was oddly nervous, but he tried his best not to let it show. Lord Angelo was the embodiment of calm but he had a small smile that wasn’t overlooked by Crowley.

“Try to attack me, if you can.”

Crowley squinted his eyes, falling for the provocation. Their blades touched, Lord Aziraphale’s engaging his blade from Crowley’s outside line. Crowley’s body reacted instinctively and immediately tried to attack — his right leg lunged forward, and he tried to hit his target, Lord Angelo’s torso. 

Lord Angelo caught Crowley’s blade with his free hand with a fluid movement. Unfazed, he moved his wrist and bent his arm, still letting his blade be in the outside line, and stroke with it above Crowley’s in the direction of Crowley’s chest. Crowley watched as Lord Angelo’s arm that had caught the blade made a circular motion, rotating Crowley’s wrist, making him let go of the blade.

Crowley couldn’t even blink. He stood there, disarmed, with the light touch of his opponent’s blade on his chest, at the mercy of his opponent. He had unsurprisingly lost, but the grace with which Lord Angelo had won made his heart flutter. Lord Angelo’s movements had been precise and elegant like he was making art. He had disarmed Crowley in a matter of seconds, frustrating his poor attempt at an attack. 

Lord Angelo relaxed his body and returned the blade to Crowley. He dared to look smug, the bastard.

“What was that?”

Crowley had been hurt in his pride, but couldn’t care less. His throat was dry, blood quickly pulsing through his veins, and a hot, melting feeling was spreading throughout his body. His skin burnt, especially where the blade had touched him. He tried very hard to control his breathing, trying to make it look like his agitation was because of the exercise. Good expertise had always been alluring to him, and coming from Lord Angelo, it was especially affecting.

“One of the four ways of disarmament. Not very adequate for situations outside of a salle, which is a pity. They can be quite complicated, and I am afraid you don’t have the level for that yet, my dear.”

Lord Angelo grinned, his eyes sparkling like they always did. Crowley couldn’t believe how aroused he was by that demonstration. Lord Angelo was not only soft and a pleasure to the eyes, but he was also strong, secure in his steps in a way he wasn’t in other ways. All those different aspects of his personality, all the ways he could smile and joke and made his eyes lighten up, his ridiculous halo of hair, his delicate but firm hands. How he had not hesitated in disarming Crowley with a rapid, fluid motion of his body — that soft body that Crowley ached to know better. He had seen Lord Angelo’s arms flex, the muscles under his linen shirt, but Lord Angelo had been delicate, showing great control of his strength. Crowley’s mind was filled with highly inappropriate ideas. 

He dried his hands on his clothes and tried to focus on something else. For the first time, he noticed something on the wall. 

It was some sort of base for an exhibit, attached to the wall, but there was nothing on it. By the shape of it, it ought to have belonged to a sword. Ignoring how much that display of sword mastery had affected Crowley, he walked towards it.

“Where is the sword that should be here?”

Crowley turned his gaze to Lord Angelo, who was pointedly ignoring his. He looked… ashamed? His cheeks were turning a pretty shade of pink that made the warm feeling in Crowley’s chest get worse. 

“It was an old family heirloom. A beautiful, extraordinary sword which was my father’s pride.”

“And what happened to it?”

Lord Angelo mumbled something, not loud enough for Crowley to hear. “I didn’t hear that, angel.”

“I gave it away.”

“You _what_?”

“I gave it away!”

Crowley, for the thousandth time since he had met Lord Angelo, had his mouth hanging opened.

“You gave away your family heirloom? Why?”

Lord Angelo wriggled his hands together, something that should have been impossible with a sword in his hands. “Madame Tracy had been having severe monetary issues because of a horrifying flood in her house. I couldn’t increase her salary, so I gave the sword to her in the hope that she would sell it and use the money for repairs.”

Lord Angelo didn’t dare to look at him. He jumped when Crowley barked with laughter.

“Angel, you are out of this world.”

Lord Angelo, then, did return his gaze. He was still flustered but he wiggled happily. Crowley showed a great deal of self-control by not running to him and kissing him. He frowned — those kinds of impulses were becoming more and more frequent. 

Crowley caressed his neck, embarrassed. He helped Lord Angelo clean up the place, putting the small swords they had used to their rightful place. 

The walk back home was silent until Crowley let his tongue slip again. 

“I do think you are wrong, though.”

Lord Angelo, walking with his hands folded behind his back, tilted his head, questioning. It reminded Crowley of a bird.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I do think I’ll be able to pull off that disarming technique of yours in no time.”

Lord Angelo puffed. “Allow me to doubt it, but I guess I can’t stop you from dreaming.”

Crowley put a hand on his chest as if Lord Angelo had broken his heart. “You offend me, angel.”

“I guess we’ll see who is right.”

Lord Angelo gave him a glance that made Crowley’s heart stop beating for way too long to be healthy. There was a defiant fire in those eyes and Crowley was ready to jump into it. 

===

The rest of the day went by normally. He didn’t see Lord Angelo, which hurt Crowley a bit, but he refused to admit it, not even to himself. Surely the Lord had been caught by some book and simply had forgotten about their arrangement — it was Crowley’s turn to teach Lord Angelo to swim. Crowley hoped the lord would remember it the next day as he could do nothing but wait to be called by him.

After dinner with Tracy and Newt, while he was heading to his room, something in front of his door caught his eye. There was a book there, lying on the floor. Crowley grabbed it, full of curiosity. 

The book wasn’t old, but judging by his cover it had been deeply used and studied. It was dimensionally larger vertically than horizontally. Crowley opened the book in the front page, searching for a title. It read: “ _The School of Fencing_ ”, written by Domenico Angelo. Crowley instantly realized it was Lord Angelo’s father. 

A small sheet of parchment fell from the book; Crowley picked it up and found something written on it.

_I hope this book will enlighten your thirst for upper knowledge, as you insist on learning way too advanced techniques. With this book, I hope you find the right answer — which is that you are, in fact, wrong, and I am right._

_Attentively,_

_Aziraphale Angelo._

Crowley laughed. What a bastard. With a stupid grin on his face, he stepped inside his room, clutching the book against his chest.

That night Crowley dreamt of Lord Angelo. All the times they had been together, all the conversations and glances they had shared. Everything was filled with the pleasure Lord Angelo’s company gave Crowley, and even in dreams, he ached for him. Laughter filled the air, Crowley’s skin burning from all the places he had dared to touch Lord Angelo.

Every single time, the dream would eventually turn into something dark, filling Crowley with dread. He knew something was wrong, very wrong, but couldn’t place the danger, and he couldn’t warn his angel on time. 

Suddenly, fire would blaze up. The hot air-filled their lungs, enabling them to breathe. Too late Crowley would realize that the fire came from Lord Angelo himself. 

He had to watch Lord Angelo be consumed by flames and Crowley could do nothing but watch, unable to save him, no matter how much he screamed his name. The dreams were so vivid he could feel the tears going down his face evaporate with the warmth of the flames. His hands, that had tried to hold Lord Angelo, would sting and hurt, full of blisters. 

Until there was nothing but ashes.

Crowley could never save him and the dream would repeat, again and again, until he finally woke up, his scream breaking the silence of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my best at researching fencing techniques, but I am no expert so apologies for any mistakes or artistic liberties I take during this fic. Aziraphale's father is based on an actual fencing master, Domenico Angelo! I found about him totally by accident. Isn't life nice sometimes?
> 
> Title from the song Nina Cried Power by Hozier


	5. It's my destiny to be the king of pain

_I am a restrained person._

_Otherwise my heart would race past my_

_tongue to pour out everything._

_Instead I mumble,_

_I gnaw myself._

_I lose hope._

_And my mind is burning._

‘Agamemnon’, Aeschylus (translated by Anne Carson).

Aziraphale had always been alone.

This house that haunted his dreams was his prison. He was condemned, chained to it, not only physically, but also by responsibility.

It was like a plague. A sickness that crept into his mind and soul, poisoning his every action and decision. He had a duty that came into being the day he was born, and would only be over the day he finally died.

Growing up, his parents had taken care of him, or they had done all they could. His mother, principally. What Aziraphale had never wanted to admit was that they were, in fact, cold and distant. He knew he was loved, but that didn’t mean they granted him the attention he sought. Aziraphale had this at a young age, and had acted accordingly — his books had been his only true companion throughout his life.

_Let’s not forget loneliness; the constant shadow, the only hand willing to take his._

Aziraphale had wanted to believe that Gabriel would be good company. He admired his big brother, who was diligent, smart, good looking, and extraordinarily gifted in his swordsmanship. He was the role-model for everyone; Aziraphale remembered the way the other students in the fencing school always flocked around him. Gabriel was charismatic in a way Aziraphale had never been.

Gabriel had not been the ally he had wanted. Aziraphale’s admiration had quickly turned into fear when Gabriel had simply decided that his little brother wasn’t worth anything. Aziraphale was daily reminded of his uselessness, of his far too large body, his deep interest in boring books and his too kind nature. Gabriel had all the fine qualities Aziraphale had seen in him, true; but he was also unnecessarily cruel, with a deep antipathy towards Aziraphale omnipresent in Gabriel’s eyes. Everything Aziraphale did which was not in Gabriel’s liking was met with punishment.

It was simple. Gabriel didn’t consider him his brother; he was a mere pet.

Aziraphale was never defended. No servant dared to speak against their young master, and their parents believed they were only amusing themselves together. Growing up, Gabriel didn’t decrease his cruelty, and Aziraphale lived with terror in his own house.

He had tried to rely on others, to seek help from his fellow companions in fencing school — he was met with the same mockery that he found in Gabriel, or even a mirror of his fears. They were all either eager to terrorize him in hopes of being favoured by Gabriel, or they hid in silence. There was no hope for Aziraphale.

_Hope and love hide between the pages of a book. No matter how many times you read them, or shake its pages, they are trapped inside. There is no love for you here, look elsewhere. Stop seeking._

Even during practice, Gabriel was relentless and did everything that was in his power to hurt Aziraphale. Many nights went through with Aziraphale not being able to sleep, his injuries keeping him awake. Either way, it was never normal for him to sleep all night long.

How many times did Gabriel wake him up in the middle of the night, throwing buckets of cold water at him, just to laugh at his screams of terror? Aziraphale eventually stopped going to bed at night and made the family library his refuge. He was safe between books as long as Gabriel despised them. Even when the years passed and Gabriel stopped interrupting his sleep, Aziraphale did not use his bed.

Those long nights in front of the fire, cuddling on the couch with a blanket and a book, defined Aziraphale’s childhood. He was happy there, finding solace in many adventures and characters, getting to know places and people that filled his daydreams.

They did not fill his loneliness.

There was Tracy, of course — Aziraphale dearly loved the woman like his second mother. She was always kind and sweet with him, always eager to slip food to him in the library, knowing well too well what would happen if he left the room. She even convinced him to cook and bake, and he found another thing he could love and appreciate. Aziraphale deeply believed that those small interactions with her, those mornings spent covered in flour, had actually saved him from going insane.

Loneliness was always there. It drowned him, dragged him down, like a weight on his shoulders and heart. He never had friends. He could only talk to God.

Aziraphale’s relationship with God was not a strictly religious one despite having a conventional religious education. He used his prayers to talk to Him, imagining that there was a higher power, a person watching over him and caring about his life and well-being. Aziraphale talked to that person in a low voice, or in his mind, confiding the things he liked and the ones that bothered him.

_A trembling voice in the dark doesn’t fill the silence. No matter how close you listen, there is no answer, there is no returning sound. No echo. No way to get hurt._

God was his imaginary friend. As an adult, that changed, but the habit never truly went away. His faith was important to him, and his family used that to encourage him into the priesthood. His father was not entirely convinced by the idea, as he thought Aziraphale was more needed as a teacher in fencing school.

Oh, how Gabriel had hated that. He had wanted to be the only one to gather attention with his talent, and despised that Aziraphale was actually talented too — Gabriel was good with his strength and it was rare that he lost, but Aziraphale could truly master the grace and art his father tried to instil in all of his students. Gabriel feared that Aziraphale would, somehow, steal the rights to the school. His jealousy and paranoia made the situation at home worse.

Luckily, their father left everything to Gabriel when he passed away in his sleep. Aziraphale had never wanted anything to do with the school that was filled with so many horrendous memories. Not only because of Gabriel and his underlings, but also the training itself — his father was strict and cold, pressuring them to be the best amongst their peers, to train every day for hours until they couldn’t even lift their arms.

Aziraphale wanted to go away from that house, from that creaking wood and the sad eyes of his mother. He was consumed by everything, devoured by flames from deep inside, and the only way was to escape.

_Fire around, fire inside, ashes creeping on my throat. I don’t breathe anymore, I never truly did. This fire is inside me, it fills me, while loneliness still takes my hand. Rain pours on my head and the fire is still alive, it sings me to my sleep. Will it go away if I run? Or will it escape with me?_

He had nearly done it. He had nearly gotten away forever, all responsibilities lying on Gabriel’s shoulders. His father had confided in Aziraphale when problems had started to become too much, but he was the second son. It was not up to him to solve the mess when his father was gone. Aziraphale felt guilty for being born after Gabriel, for being able to be free.

God had other plans for him.

A few days before Aziraphale parted the house for good, Gabriel had died. His destiny had laughed at him then, and the cruelty of the world he had to live in imprisoned him. Aziraphale was condemned. Had he truly believed he could get away with it? To run away and never looking back? _Of course not_. Of course, he had to stay, living his miserable life between those walls, with that creeping loneliness that haunted the house taking a hold of his soul permanently. Condemned to walk past Gabriel’s room over and over, a constant reminder of the only true way out.

Aziraphale wanted to set everything on fire. Let everything burn and turn to ashes, mirroring his soul.

_Set aflame the darkness and rejoice in the light emanating from my sins._

He was not brave enough for it. As Gabriel had always said, Aziraphale was way too soft, too stupidly good to do such a thing. He had responsibilities now — he couldn’t turn his back on them. His mother relied on him. Tracy did too.

Like a ghost, he habited the library. Like a ghost, he would live. His only wish was to stop caring, to stop feeling — he had to accept his destiny.

He stopped talking to God. She never answered either way.

_All days are the same, filled with pain._

Aziraphale only had to wait for the day it all ended. His mother had made the final arrangements; his future was sealed.

It was ironic, really. He had met true despair in a beautiful place that looked like Heaven. The sea surrounded them, the wind made the house cry every night. The sky was omnipresent, the ocean its only limit. Aziraphale couldn’t control his desires and his eyes always tried to reach the distance, the fine line that separated the two worlds. He wanted to feel the water on his skin, the salt air ruffling his hair while on a ship that would take him away from there. It was like living in a picture without being able to enjoy it or escape it.

One night, things changed.

_Is this how it goes? When prayers die and there is only emptiness left, that’s when faith proves itself?_

Wind blowing, as usual, loneliness staring at him from dark corners. His mind circling around dark thoughts, turning back and again to a corpse smashed against the rocks, its skin kissing the sea in a final embrace.

A knock on the door.

Curiosity had sparked in him, then; like a premonition. For once, he stood up, dared to step outside the library. His self-imposed prison.

From the stairs, he saw him for the first time.

He appeared just like a hero from one of his books. Water ran on his skin, even if it hadn’t rained. A sea god, with red hair like a fallen star, trembling hands holding a wood box. He looked terrified, tired, cold. The water Aziraphale’s infernal fire had desired.

Orpheus entered Hell and looked around. Eurydice stood, petrified, hope pulsing and coming alive in his blood.

“— _and you alive: staring, almost smiling;”_

Aziraphale ran to his prison once again. Hope could only be a curse at this point, or a luxury he couldn’t afford. He knew what he had to do. He knew the price, understood the consequences if he slipped up.

His mother had previously warned about this visit. A walking companion, someone to watch over him and stop him from doing something he would regret. As if Aziraphale would abandon her as Gabriel had done.

He was already dead either way.

Mr Crowley had entered his death-like life with sarcasm and a grinning face. His legs were too long to be wise, his hips danced in a hypnotizing way. Aziraphale hadn’t felt as alone with that constant presence at his side, walking with him, breathing the same air as him.

It was magical to inhabit the same space as someone. Hear them talk, see them exist and laugh and talk and slip on the ground. Warm skin heating the other’s skin, hair being moved by the wind which had previously made him hollow inside. Careful feet sliding against old wood and entering his library, his own space, by their own volition.

Aziraphale wanted to welcome him in, let him become familiar with it. Not be a stranger anymore, just having something ordinary, his heart beating at the same tempo as someone else. Knowing this silly, clever, ridiculous man so much no words would be necessary.

_Fear has at me, dearest._

Aziraphale was willingly blind. To his own emotions, his wishes and yearning. He was not a man. He was a vision trapped in Hell, only to be taken away eventually to another type of darkness. It didn’t matter what he wanted. It simply didn’t.

In the dark of night was when he had first let himself go. Blame the wine, blame the years of loneliness, blame the emotion in his heart every time he saw Mr Crowley — his fingers had combed through red hair, admiring that cherished profile, letting him rest on Aziraphale’s lap. The heavy weight of something dear there, something that should be familiar, ought to be, couldn’t be wrong. Torturous ache inside his bones, chains always rattling behind him.

For one instant, he had been free. Mr Crowley breathed, trapped in a dream, and he smiled as if he was enjoying the sensation of Aziraphale’s fingers caressing him.

_‘This dark is everywhere’ we said, and called it light, coming to ourselves._

A moment’s debility doesn’t prove anything. Aziraphale clasped his trembling hands every time he was with Mr Crowley, those stupid hands that ached to touch him again.

He couldn’t be free, hence he didn’t love.

Mr Crowley was only a temptation. Aziraphale wasn’t in a story, he couldn’t be rescued from a wicked dragon. If he could, he would have already saved himself — _lies_ —. There was simply no solution to this. There was only a sacrifice.

Yet, it wasn’t wrong to enjoy this, right? If he knew what was at stake, he could go on and have a bit of fun, let his blood run in his veins as a living being. Aziraphale was aware of what he was. It was fine. They were going to go their separate ways one day either way; he could indulge a bit, try the waters with the tip of his fingers.

Aziraphale could simply steal glances, here and there, to watch his profile. That nose, those expressive eyebrows, the flash of teeth when Mr Crowley laughed. The way his back looked when he stared at the sky as if he was angry with it. _And he should_ , Aziraphale always thought. _We should_.

Again and again, Aziraphale’s eyes would hide from him. It was interesting — Mr Crowley was the one behind glasses, but it was Aziraphale who escaped his gaze. The one with secrets worth burying.

_Hurry, leave me, there is nothing to save here. Have mercy._

It was strange to see Mr Crowley apparently enjoy his presence as much as Aziraphale did. How could he? Aziraphale had nothing to offer. Some books, some lonely nights. A garden. The sea. But those things didn’t really belong to him, either.

Sweat going down Mr Crowley’s skin. His hips, enticingly inviting, but not appropriate for a guarding stance. Was it too bad that Aziraphale took this chance to be near him? To smell that now-familiar scent? How prideful he had been, showing off his prowess with the sword to try and impress Mr Crowley.

Aziraphale had never known how to make friends. He tried as best as he could with Mr Crowley, afraid of scaring him. He couldn’t show much of himself — _don’t turn around, Orpheus_ — as it didn’t matter.

He was condemned. Nothing to save. Nothing to see. He willingly chose to stay in Hell.

He learned to walk and walk. Not sleep. Read every book, close his eyes to the wind. Breathe once, twice. Feet in the water, hands in red hair. No, he must turn back, turn back to where it was all hollow and meaningless and he knew what was coming. Tell himself his heart did not ache, did not feel, he couldn’t feel, had he forgotten that? He was just a title, a man haunting a house, a house cursing his soul. Legs that lunged forwards, hands that were rough inside from holding swords, hands that trembled from holding fears tight. Sleepless nights, one behind the other. There was loneliness, forever, the only constant in his life. That was familiar, to embrace and not fear anything else. It hurt, but this pain was Aziraphale.

Eurydice was not saved in the end. Aziraphale knew it — he understood how the story went. Never look back, or simply don’t look forward. There was nothing to see.

===

Aziraphale loved his garden. He loved his books. How some food tasted better with certain types of wine. He concentrated on them these days, trying to bond as he usually did with the world surrounding him. It helped him get away from thoughts that he couldn’t let himself have.

A couple of weeks had gone by since Mr Crowley had arrived. A lifetime ago. Aziraphale was now used to him, and every time he read something new and exciting, his first thought was always of Mr Crowley, wondering what remark he would make. The lord had become used to Mr Crowley’s quick wit filling the conversations, giving Aziraphale ideas that he would never have come up with on his own. Aziraphale loved their constant bickering, the jokes that were now only theirs.

Sometimes he thought Mr Crowley stared at him, studied his face as if Aziraphale was about to vanish and he wanted to remember him after he was gone. Aziraphale didn’t want to have hope, didn’t want to give meaning to this relationship. They couldn’t even call it friendship — Aziraphale was destined to go to Milan for the rest of his life.

Either way, Mr Crowley would eventually get tired of him.

Aziraphale had decided to be alone that day. He couldn’t be dependent on Mr Crowley’s presence, no matter how much he enjoyed it — which was precisely the problem. If he ought to be married in some weeks time, he couldn’t leave the place with lingering feelings. Not even mentioning that they were for another man who couldn’t possibly be interested in this fussy disaster of a lord.

His fingers turned the pages of the book he was holding. He walked along the garden’s path, watching the flowers surrounding him. Aziraphale loved to take care of them, study them and observe them blossom. He wasn’t great at it, and that proved to make it interesting — an ever-changing challenge that kept him on his toes.

Much like Mr Crowley.

Again, his mind drifted to him like an addiction. His ears tingled every time Mr Crowley called him angel, every time he caught him looking at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale held his book tighter and continued observing the flowers. It was a sunny day, perfect to enjoy one’s garden, and he was going to do so no matter what. He was going to ignore the pang of guilt in his chest for not inviting Mr Crowley to meet him in their usual hour. He was _not_ going to miss his presence and snarky comments.

The book fell to the grass with a thud when yelling scared Aziraphale.

“I told YOU, you need to grow better! You should all be ashamed of yourselves, stupid plants that you are! I am wiser, better than you lot, so you should listen to me! There is a very nice cliff where I could send you all flying — ”

Aziraphale walked into an indescribable scenario. Mr Crowley, with his charming flaming hair tied, his way too tight breeches hugging those never-ending legs of his, a deep red linen shirt and black waistcoat highlighting his lean figure, was kneeling between the plants like a strange-looking flower. He was visibly angry at someone, judging by his yelling, but there was no one there as far as Aziraphale could see.

They gazed at each other, bewildered.

“My dear, what —”

“No, no.” Mr Crowley got up, his hands flapping around. His bones popped when he straightened his body, and his knees were now green.

Aziraphale frowned, confused. “Can I help you with something?”

“Simply forget I was here.” Mr Crowley bowed his head and tried to walk away, but Aziraphale was faster and grabbed his arm.

Mr Crowley turned his head and stared at the point where Aziraphale’s hand made contact with his arm. Aziraphale hastily let go, realizing how rude he was being. He hoped Mr Crowley was not annoyed by his tactlessness.

Mr Crowley was staring at him, his eyebrows pointing up in a questioning expression. Aziraphale fiddled with his hands, not sure what to do now that he had gotten Mr Crowley’s attention. Why was he now so unsure, after two weeks of constant conversation with Mr Crowley?

“I just — sorry. That was rude of me. I just wondered what you were doing to my poor flowers.”

Mr Crowley flashed a grin and a wave of relief washed over Aziraphale. He had not offended Mr Crowley, he was not angry. Aziraphale had not yet ruined this relationship. Everything was fine.

“No, sorry for trying to run away. I was embarrassed. I tend to get a bit… emotional with plants, when I see they don’t grow as they should be expected to. Yelling usually works, gives them the fright they deserve.”

A chuckle escaped from Aziraphale’s lips. Mr Crowley surely had magic powers, as all worries vanished from Aziraphale’s mind. For once, he could be _there_ , in the present moment, with a man that deemed it normal to kneel between flowers and yell at them.

Crowley was flushed. There was a bit of pollen on his shoulder, and Aziraphale, without thinking much, leaned on and patted it away. Crowley watched him do so, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale, and he wondered yet again if he had pushed some limit he wasn’t supposed to. Perhaps Aziraphale was acting too familiar with Crowley — he should know better than to casually touch others. Mr Crowley’s face was even redder now; was he perhaps allergic to the plants surrounding them? It would be disastrous. Aziraphale stepped back, hoping Mr Crowley would follow him and put some distance between them and the plants. Luckily, he did, and Aziraphale sighed.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Mr Crowley’s voice was rushed as if he had not expected to be brave enough to pose the question. Aziraphale was confused — wrong? How could Mr Crowley possibly do something wrong? His presence was a blessing in Aziraphale’s life, wasn’t it painfully obvious?

“Whatever made you think that way, my dear?”

Again, the endearment escaped his lips, too late to be stopped. Aziraphale tried not to flinch visibly. He was definitely being too familiar with Mr Crowley. The last thing Aziraphale wanted was for him to leave the house before the six weeks they were allowed to be together inevitably ended.

Mr Crowley looked at his feet, his lips comically pointing downwards. “You didn’t call for me today.”

Oh. So that was it. Aziraphale closed his eyes momentarily, blaming his insecurity. The problem had been him, not Mr Crowley — but of course, the poor man couldn’t know that.

“Oh, no, Mr Crowley, I am so sorry for the misunderstanding. I simply needed some time alone — I am afraid I am being a bit of a handful. I was sure you were tired of seeing me every day and thought it would be best to give you a free day.”

Mr Crowley frowned. “That is a massive pile of bollocks.”

“Mr Crowley!”

Mr Crowley was dead serious, his arms crossed on his chest. “Never, ever, think of your presence as something to grow tired of. My duty is to be with you, accompany you, yes; but it makes me happy to do so. Unless it’s you who is growing tired of my presence.”

Aziraphale made an effort of not appearing too flushed. He lost the battle.

“I would never get tired of you being around. You are way too nice — ”

Mr Crowley approached him so quickly he didn’t have the time to resist. Mr Crowley’s hands grabbed him by the coat and pushed him against the apple tree where Aziraphale had found him sleeping, two weeks ago. Their noses touched briefly, and their breaths intertwined, even though Aziraphale was quite sure his lungs had stopped working.

“I am not nice. I am never nice.”

Aziraphale was not listening. His eyes could only watch as Mr Crowley’s lips moved, so close to his own, his teeth flashing menacingly. Aziraphale had finally done it, he had angered Mr Crowley for good without meaning to, but their proximity was too distracting for him to feel guilty.

Mr Crowley’s body was against his own, his slender legs against Aziraphale’s large ones, his hands pressing Aziraphale against the tree. Aziraphale only needed to move slightly and their lips would meet — he could put his hands on those swaying hips, bring Mr Crowley closer. Or perhaps put his hands on his face and silence whatever nonsense he was sputtering.

An apple fell from the tree at that moment, its impact against the ground startling them. Mr Crowley turned around and looked at it, perplexed, not yet stepping away. Aziraphale’s eyes darted to his lips again, not ready to divert his attention elsewhere.

Aziraphale had done such a good job of controlling his desires until that point, but the warmth of Mr Crowley’s body and his scent was filling his senses; he was unable to make good decisions.

The red apple rolled to Aziraphale’s feet, but he was focused on another kind of temptation and didn’t even notice. He could simply do it, kiss him now, put a stop to all the screaming in his head and his conflicting emotions. Would Crowley’s lips feel as soft as they appeared to be? The intensity of his emotions scared him — too much, too fast. Too many consequences.

Mr Crowley stepped back and blood restarted its circuit in Aziraphale’s veins. His heart hammered against his ribcage, and he hoped his arousal was not noticeable.

He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. He was fine. Calm, composed. Aziraphale rearranged his clothes, trying to find normality in this situation. Mr Crowley was not looking at him — instead, he grabbed the apple from Aziraphale’s feet, and cleaned it against his waistcoat. Mr Crowley handed it to him then, and Aziraphale took it, nonplussed.

Mr Crowley bowed his head and walked away from there, leaving a deeply confused Aziraphale in the garden, with only his fluttering heart for company.

_God never answered me but you give me the source of all sin, giving me more hope than faith ever did._

Eurydice never escaped Hell. Orpheus doomed her when he _looked_ at her, turned around and stared into what she had become. Aziraphale realized then, lifting the apple to his lips and breathing in the faint scent, that he had missed that detail. How could he expect and wait for Mr Crowley to leave him there if he didn’t let Mr Crowley see him? There was only one way to work it out. Aziraphale needed to cry out to him and let him turn around. Mr Crowley had already shown interest — he had willingly entered his library, talked to him, _listened_ to him.

Aziraphale could let him stare. Just like that moment against the tree, Aziraphale could let Mr Crowley get close, not so much as to burn himself, but enough to understand. Then, Aziraphale would let him be free. It would be fine — no matter the secrets uncovered, Mr Crowley would return to be only a stranger, and Aziraphale would be able to willingly let his soul be consumed. Aziraphale only needed to be _seen_ once for the chains to grow stronger and immortal, and observe as his only hope walked away from him.

Aziraphale sank his teeth into the red skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the poetry quotes tangled with Aziraphale's narration (the best ones) were taken from Jean Valentine's poem "Orpheus and Eurydice". The others are mine.
> 
> Title from the lyrics of "King of Pain" by The Police


	6. Let me name the stars for you

_Shit shit shit shit shit._

What the fuck was wrong with him? Crowley had just slammed Lord Aziraphale against a wall, grabbing his probably very expensive coat, and yelled at him as if they were brawling in a pub!

Or as if he was about to kiss him senseless.

Crowley ran as fast as he could, his face matching his hair colour. There was no way to go back and apologize now, not with the way he had run away. How was Crowley going to face him, next time they saw each other, in their walks or fencing?

Crowley decided it was best to dig a hole and bury himself in it. _Here lies Mr Crowley; everything he did ended up turning on him. Cause of death: angel. RIP_

Why had he given an apple to Lord Angelo? To make him feel better after pushing him and yelling at him? And oh, shit, it all had been caused by Lord Angelo _complimenting_ him. Why hadn’t he just accepted it and moved on?

“GAH!”

His voice echoed through the garden, scaring some doves. The flapping of their wings accompanied Crowley until he finally reached the house. Like a maniac, he climbed the stairs and stomped towards his room. He closed the door hurriedly, and without changing his clothes, Crowley threw himself to the bed. It didn’t matter the hour — Crowley decided the day was now over.

He tossed and turned for hours under the blanket; the memory of Lord Angelo’s expression when he was close against him was not letting Crowley rest. Lord Angelo’s eyes had shone with a strange light Crowley hadn’t seen before, his expression suddenly serious. No flickering eyelashes, no quick smiles. A straight face with his eyes focused on Crowley’s face. He hadn’t responded with force to Crowley’s violence; he could have done something, he could have stopped Crowley without breaking a sweat. He was far stronger than Crowley, as he had shown before — Crowley stopped that train of thought. It would only make matters worse.

For a second, Crowley could have sworn that Lord Angelo had stared at his lips, but it had all been so quick there was no way to be sure. It probably had just been wishful thinking, either way.

Crowley turned around again, burying his face on the pillow. Lord Angelo’s body had felt soft against his, his neck just a breath away. Crowley’s hands opened and closed, driving the sensation of Lord Angelo’s clothes away. He had been close. So close — their noses had touched. He had seen every shade of blue in Lord Angelo’s eyes, every line on his face.

He had to do something. This couldn’t go on in such a manner. If the situation couldn’t be solved, then he had to welcome it with open arms.

Do it properly.

===

“Hey, Newt.”

Newt, startled, let go of the spoon he had been holding. Crowley had ambushed him when he was eating dinner, with no one around. Newt had come back from more errands in town at a late hour and was eating only now.

“Hello, sir, anything I could help you with?”

Crowley grinned at him and settled his limbs on the chair next to Newt, the back of it facing him, his arms resting on it.

“Now, now, Newt, no need to be so formal. You know you can call me Crowley.”

Crowley’s grin widened when he saw Newt gulping. Somehow, he had managed to terrorize the poor valet, after several dinners of extensive interrogation with Tracy at expense of Newt.

”Alright, sir — I mean, Crowley.”

“So, Newt. I know you’ve been courting a certain lady.” Crowley wriggled his eyebrows while Newt looked mortified. “How is that going?”

“Fine, I think. She always talks to me when I go into the library.”

“Oh, is that so? Quite the courting master, right?”

Newt blushed. “I don’t know, Crowley. In all honesty, she is the one doing most of the talking.”

Crowley leaned closer to him. “But you managed to make her interested enough to talk to you. That is something already.”

Newt smiled, a new hope shining in his eyes. “I guess. I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

Proudly, Newt took a bite of his food, while Crowley’s brain-machine turned its cogs and gears.

“How did you learn to do it?”

Newt stared at him, suspicion dawning on his face. “Is there a woman you are trying to court, perhaps?”

“Uh, yeah. A woman from where I’m from.”

Newt started to smile in a way Crowley was not enthusiastic to see, so he leaned forward suddenly, startling Newt again.

“Listen, here. You are not going to tell anyone about this, you got it? You are going to tell me where you get the information, and then you’ll forget everything about it. Is that clear?”

Newt promptly nodded. “Crystal clear. The secret dies with me. I learned everything I know from a book in the library, but I didn’t have the money to buy it. When no one sees me I read little snippets of it. I hide it on one of the shelves in the back, behind a big red book that no one ever buys.”

Crowley nodded and slapped the table, content. Newt jumped at it. “Excellent.”

He walked away with a huge smile on his face, leaving a terrified Newt behind.

That was it then. He would court Lord Angelo properly now, as he should be courted. There was no way Crowley would attract Lord Angelo’s affections, as he was going to marry another person, a _woman,_ eventually — Crowley was there to ensure it, even. It didn’t mean Crowley couldn’t take his chance, play things fairly. He had always been an optimist, so who knew? Perhaps Lord Angelo did fancy him, and they could spend a lovely time together before Lord Angelo eventually had to get married.

There was no way things would end well.

Crowley didn’t let the thought of more enter his head. He acknowledged how small the possibility of succeeding, his responsibility as a painter, their different positions in society. He could court Lord Angelo and still paint the portrait, as much as it pained him. Lady Angelo didn’t deserve Crowley suddenly dropping his job. She had trusted him with her son, not only with the painting — but Crowley was also there to keep company with Lord Angelo. Crowley remembered Lord Gabriel’s death, and his diary, and shivered; he would do anything to stop Lord Angelo ending in such an awful way.

Next time he had a free day, Crowley would go to town.

===

Crowley surveyed the portrait. He had been steadily working on it since he had arrived, two weeks ago, and he was not doing badly despite the circumstances. The mirrors Tracy had lent him were working wonderfully, as he could study his own pose as reference for the painting.

If he was being honest, he was exhausted.

The last weeks had taken a toll on him. Crowley’s feelings for Lord Angelo — the extent of them something he was yet not ready to accept — were tiring him emotionally. Crowley loved being in Lord Angelo’s company, their time together a delight and a luxury Crowley was now all too used to. Crowley had the feeling they were getting closer by the day; Lord Angelo was now more comfortable with him, and little by little, he let Crowley ask questions about his life. He had not answered anything too private, but Crowley delighted on the steps forward he was making with him. They had spent most nights together drinking and talking in the library, sometimes even forgetting they were supposed to taste the wine in Lord Angelo’s possession. Instead, they would become caught up in conversation.

Crowley had discovered some of the fencing exercises Lord Angelo had most difficulty with, and how he had always wanted to swim but didn’t have the courage to. He knew about Lord Angelo’s favourite genres — poetry and adventure — and his preferred time of the day — morning. Lord Angelo loved sweet things but hated acidic ones. He had planted the apple tree in the garden himself.

Crowley was a historian, documenting all these little facts in his mind, for no reason whatsoever. Just like he was filing every single expression Lord Angelo granted to him, he was now becoming an expert in Lord-Angelology. It was the best occupation he had ever experienced. He could now read Lord Angelo like one of his books, knowing what all those hands gestures and smiles meant, how he pouted when he saw something he didn’t enjoy. Crowley was always hypnotized by his wine tinted lips, drinking his every word.

It all came with the price of recognising it was going to end. The commission he had to take care of was eating his mind away, keeping him awake most nights. In his hands was the key to his doom. He could purposely do a bad job, make the worst portrait the world had ever seen, and somehow convince Lady Angelo to send it to the lord’s fiancée. If there was any luck, her family would reject the marriage, and Lord Angelo would stay. He could even be free, travel to wherever his heart desired — perhaps he would go with Crowley to the main island. They could be together, or they could be just friends, whatever Lord Angelo preferred. Crowley would take any chance, any way to be near Lord Angelo.

He knew damn well he couldn’t do that.

Crowley’s mind circled back to the idea of courting him. Sometimes it appeared to be a wonderful idea — he would try his very best; he would even follow the rules. It would be up to Lord Angelo to decide, and whichever the outcome, Crowley wouldn’t be haunted by the chances he didn’t take. He would have tried, and he would be able to move on.

It was a stupid idea. He could already imagine the outcome of it — Lord Angelo had responsibilities, he was a serious man with strong beliefs that wouldn’t waver because of a skinny painter.

There was also all the matter of the secret Crowley kept from him. He wanted to grab the stupid canvas, run to the library where Lord Angelo was probably reading, and show it to him. Explain it all, come clean. Crowley couldn’t bring himself to do it, as there was a very good possibility Lord Angelo would kick him out of the house. It was the one thing that couldn’t happen — Crowley _had_ to finish the portrait.

He got up from the stool where he had been perched on and kicked it.

“Fuck!”

It hurt, but it cleared his mind enough to come to a decision. He had already made it before, even if his mind had decided to turn around it again. Crowley would court Lord Angelo, even if it was only because the man _deserved_ to be courted. Not slammed against trees. Perhaps later, with consent, if things went in a good direction. _Hmm._

A gentle knock made him come back to reality.

“Yeah?”

The door opened; it was Tracy. She clearly noticed the poor state in which Crowley was, but blessedly decided not to comment.

“Lord Angelo wants to see you.”

Their usual hour had finally arrived and Crowley had forgotten to wait at the entrance. These past few days they had behaved like that — whoever got there first waited for the other to arrive. It was usually Crowley who waited for the lord, however. There had been a couple of times in which Lord Angelo had not appeared — once when he had gotten too lost in a book, but he had called for Crowley and they had shared a bottle of wine, and the second because Lord Angelo thought he had grown tired of him; then the apple tree incident had happened. Lord Angelo was the smartest person Crowley had ever known, but he could be really blind sometimes.

Was it not obvious how besotted Crowley was with him?

The fact that Lord Angelo had called for him that day was strange. Crowley descended the stairs and found that Lord Angelo appeared to be nervous, which was also odd. He had a towel in his hands, and then it dawned on Crowley.

They were finally going to swim.

The past few days, the subject hadn’t been mentioned again. It seemed as if Lord Angelo was a bit apprehensive about the idea, even if he had been the one manifesting an interest in it. Apparently, he had gathered all his bravery and decided it was time; still, Lord Angelo fussed with his hands, biting his lower lip. Crowley frowned; Lord Angelo was far too nervous. Lord Angelo returned his gaze and seemed to come to his senses again.

“Alright. Pip-pip!”

They stepped outside. Crowley followed Lord Angelo; he was quick in his steps, very much like the day they had met. Crowley now understood that it was Lord Angelo’s way of walking when he was particularly nervous.

They reached the beach; Lord Angelo left the towel on the sand and took off his shoes; Crowley imitated him. Confused, Crowley observed as Lord Angelo took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second.

Then, Lord Angelo began to unbutton his waistcoat.

Crowley nearly choked. In disbelief, he watched as a very flustered Lord Angelo finished taking off his waistcoat, then his breeches and stockings, leaving him in his underwear. He started to unbutton his linen shirt, and Crowley couldn’t take it anymore.

“Gngghkh?” Crowley asked.

“Well, my dear, you wouldn’t expect me to swim with my clothes on, right? They would get damaged!”

Crowley had, in fact, not thought of that. Of course, they couldn’t swim with clothes on. How could had he forgotten such a crucial detail? The reason Lord Angelo had been avoiding the swimming classes was obvious now. At least he had taken some days to mentally prepare for this day, but it was all falling on Crowley now.

Lord Angelo was shy and self-conscious, and Crowley was the one that had _emotions_ for the other. Meaning: he was not going to survive these classes.

He had thought he already had it bad with the fencing classes, but as always, God had decided to show him how wrong he was. Crowley stared at every bit of skin Lord Angelo was freeing, opening and closing his hands, completely frozen in place.

Lord Angelo had a plump body, soft and dusted with light hair. He had strong arms and a few scars, probably from accidents during fencing practice. His belly curved over the line of his underpants.

 _Fuck_. Crowley was supposed to undress too, but he was now sporting a _problem._ Crowley looked elsewhere, trying to calm his breathing and roaring blood. Lord Angelo. Basically naked. Next to him. His arms and chest and body in full view. Was he going to take off his underwear too? Crowley stole a glance and observed that Lord Angelo was carefully folding his clothes on top of the extended towel. It didn’t look like he was going to take off his underwear, which caused a wave of combined disappointment and relief inside of Crowley’s guts.

Alright. Fine. Crowley started unbuttoning his waistcoat, his fingers shaking slightly. He unsuccessfully tried to shut up all the screaming in his head. _Breathe. In. Out. In. Out._ It was not the first time someone had seen him in the nude, or that he had seen someone in the nude. This was fine.

Crowley took off the waistcoat and left it on the sand next to him. His traitorous eyes momentarily looked up, and what he saw made him stop breathing.

Lord Angelo was watching him. He was biting his lower lip, as he had done before, but now it was not in a nervous manner. He was still kneeling on the sand, his hands clasped on his legs. His face was expectant, perhaps waiting for Crowley to keep on taking off his clothes. Crowley swallowed. He was probably imagining that strange light in Lord Angelo’s eyes — he was only waiting for Crowley to finish so they could start the class. Everything was perfectly normal, just a good old afternoon between friends.

Crowley kept his eyes on Lord Angelo while he unbuttoned his shirt. His face was burning, but he couldn’t resist watching Lord Angelo’s reaction, hoping to see what he ardently desired to see. Lord Angelo gulped, following Crowley’s slow motions. His shirt dropped, and he began taking off his breeches. Lord Angelo glanced between his eyelashes at his chest, settling again on Crowley’s hands.

When Crowley finished, he took his eyes off Lord Angelo, too embarrassed to continue the eye contact. He partially wanted to run away or cover himself again, as he was afraid it was too obvious now how hard he was. Crowley stayed there, in place, hoping to tempt his observer.

“My, my, Mr Crowley.”

Crowley swallowed.

“Do you really expect me to go swimming while you leave your clothes in such a state?”

Crowley turned around towards Lord Angelo, and found him closer now, still kneeling on the sand, folding Crowley’s clothes in the same way he had done with his. Crowley froze; the fact that Lord Angelo was so near him, _kneeling,_ making his brain stop working on the spot. He jumped backwards and nearly fell on the sand.

Lord Angelo took his time folding properly. Crowley, impatient, started to walk around him, swaying his hips in the most enticing way he could.

“Come on, angel, let’s go into the water already!”

“Not until I am sure your clothes are properly taken care of.”

“Angel! It’s fine! Get into the water!”

Lord Angelo, true to his word, only got up after he deemed his work done. He primly walked towards the water and grimaced when he felt its cold bite.

Crowley, his impatience getting a hold on him, simply jumped into it. He regretted his decision two seconds later when nature reminded him of how cold water could turn out to be — but he was an adult, so he didn’t show his horror. He also didn’t scream.

He had also forgotten about his glasses.

Crowley was acutely aware of the fact that Lord Angelo had not fully seen his eyes yet. It was a worry that murmured in the back of Crowley’s mind, but he was used to it. It was the same guilty whisper which existed every time he met someone. Wearing glasses had improved his life considerably, so he never listened to any remark about it, not his or from others. They were now part of his face, sitting on his nose as naturally as his hair was red.

It didn’t matter how natural they felt. They were not actually glued to his face.

Crowley blinked stupidly, trying to keep the water out of his eyes. It stung, and he brought his hand to his face, realizing with a shudder the glasses were not there anymore.

He couldn’t see anything, he couldn’t find the glasses, Lord Angelo was going to notice his eyes and they would scare him off. His breath quickened, and his attempts to control his panic were useless.

A gentle touch on his shoulder startled him. Crowley moved his hand towards it, and another hand took his own, putting something in there. He curled his fingers around it and realized they were the glasses. Hurriedly, he put them on. He blinked several times and was finally able to see, the sun not blinding him anymore. His breath slowly returned to normal.

Lord Angelo was standing there, his gorgeous eyes full of worry.

“Are you alright?”

The concept of Lord Angelo rushing into the cold water to help Crowley was too much. Crowley ran a hand through his wet hair, trying to play it cool.

“Yup, no problem here, angel.”

Lord Angelo nodded. Crowley felt a bit awkward — there was a question hanging between both of them, and Crowley, as every time he found himself in this situation, wasn’t keen on being the first one to address it. He waited, patiently, but the question didn’t arrive.

Instead, Lord Angelo clasped his hands together. “Well, let’s start. What should we do first, teacher?”

Lord Angelo smiled playfully and Crowley’s stomach leapt. They were very naked, together, both in the water, and Crowley could see little drops running over Lord Angelo’s skin; he watched as Lord Angelo breathed, his lovely and ample chest moving slightly. It would be quite a sight to make him breathe faster. Crowley’s eyes wandered to Lord Angelo’s neck, now perfectly visible. The skin there looked delicate and smooth — Crowley wondered how it would feel like to kiss it, lick the drops of water off his skin, and perhaps bite slightly at his collarbone. That playful tone in his voice was not helping Crowley restrain these thoughts.

Crowley could do this. It was very simple. He just needed to close the gates to everything too sensual in his mind and focus on the lessons he had to give.

“Uhm, right. How about you learn how to float first?”

Crowley let himself fall on the water, now more gracefully than before, facing upwards. He extended his arms and legs, floating peacefully, swaying with the waves.

“Like this.”

He got up again, his long hair sticking to the back of his neck. The cold water running on his back made him shiver.

Lord Angelo, not quite so confident, bent his knees to fall backwards, but a huge wave decided to make its appearance just then. He fell, his whole body being submerged by the water.

Crowley jumped to him immediately, and dived in, groping to find the lord. Luckily they weren’t in a deep part of the beach, and Crowley helped Lord Angelo stand up again in a matter of seconds. Crowley tried not to think too much about the close skin to skin contact, his arms surrounding Lord Angelo by the waist. The moment Lord Angelo’s head broke the surface and stood with his legs, Crowley released him, embarrassed; but still not stepping away, afraid Lord Angelo might trip again.

Lord Angelo was now fully drenched, his hair sticking to his forehead and his eyes red because of the salty water. He seemed a bit confused, but there was no apparent damage done. Crowley had his hands up towards him, ready to catch him again if necessary.

“I’m fine, do not worry, my dear. It was just a little scare; how unlucky that such a huge wave came precisely at this moment.”

“We can do this another day if you’d prefer, or cancel this altogether.”

“No, no.” Lord Angelo shook his head and his wet curls bounced adorably. “I want to do this. I need to.”

The last part was just a mere whisper. Lord Angelo looked determined, so Crowley didn’t push it.

Lord Angelo looked at him and noticed something on Crowley’s face. He extended one hand and repositioned Crowley’s glasses, pushed askew with the rescue. Crowley’s face turned red, and he shook his head, clearing his thoughts.

“Let me help you then, my lord.”

Lord Angelo acquiesced and Crowley lightly put his hand on his back, steadying him, so Lord Angelo could shift his weight and float, letting himself go. His skin was soft to the touch — Crowley’s fingers lingered on his skin a second more than what was necessary, but he stepped away when he saw Lord Angelo floating. Crowley was near enough to help him if needed, but not enough as to make the situation awkward.

Lord Angelo beamed, contemplating the sky above them. Blue faced blue, and his eyes twinkled with delight. He extended his limbs just like Crowley had done before, letting the water carry him and tenderly lick his skin.

Crowley memorized him just like this, the image of Lord Angelo full of joy, tender blues and greens from the water surrounding him and welcoming him in. He studied the curves of his body, his face framed with the sea. How his hair was spread by the water around his head like a halo.

Lord Angelo sighed, contented. “This wasn’t so bad, after all.”

Crowley grinned. “Of course, it’s me teaching you, what did you expect? It offends me that you don’t trust me more, angel.”

Lord Angelo’s smile quivered a bit at that. “I really should trust you more, yes.”

Crowley frowned. Lord Angelo had sounded a bit sad, which was definitely not his intention.

“Alright, let’s continue then.”

They spent the next few hours doing some basic exercises. Crowley taught Lord Angelo how to float and trust the water, paddle a bit while holding Crowley’s hands — during which Crowley kept his cool perfectly, of course — and did some braces while standing. Lord Angelo was a quick learner; it was a joy to watch him gain confidence.

Lord Angelo let himself float, facing the sky, just how they had started. The sky had been darkening quickly and some stars could be seen. Crowley, not wanting to appear strange by standing there observing him, decided to imitate him, and floated alongside him.

He contemplated the sky — it was beautiful how the darkness slowly overcame everything, chasing away the warm colours of the sun. The different shades of red, orange and pink followed the sun to the horizon until they drowned, only the stars as witnesses.

From time to time, a big wave would come and push them closer to one another, making their hands slightly brush — neither of them addressed this or made a gesture to move away. It was the only thing that kept Crowley from falling asleep, as the waves were slowly lulling him.

“Thank you for doing this for me.”

Crowley turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Lord Angelo. He could see the other man’s profile; he was admiring the sky, his eyes as beautiful as the stars above them. There was a sad tone in his voice, just like before.

“It’s my pleasure, my lord,” Crowley answered quietly.

The night had a strange effect on people. It made them murmur, whisper their thoughts and confess things they wouldn’t normally. The sky opened to them, occupying all their vision, and the ocean was there to catch them; they were at the mercy of nature; they couldn’t be judged. Here, consequences didn’t seem to exist.

“Please, don’t call me that. Aziraphale is fine, Mr Crowley. Or, well, angel too.” He chuckled.

Crowley took a deep breath. “You can call me Crowley if you’d like then. It’s what I prefer anyway.”

“Understood, Crowley.” Crowley could hear the smile in his voice.

A moment passed between them, and Crowley decided to speak again. “Thank you for trusting me, Aziraphale.” The name was a fire on his tongue. “It was probably not easy to trust a stranger to stop you from drowning.”

“Oh, Crowley. You’re no stranger. I do trust you.”

The way Aziraphale said his name sent shivers down Crowley’s spine, but he was not yet done.

“I really should trust you more. Despite our differences, I see you as a friend, and your company has been nothing but an utter delight. And friends trust each other, and they tell each other things, right?”

Crowley thought about Gabriel’s diary, how he had found it while investigating someone else’s house. He thought about Lady Angelo’s request. The truth about his profession, and his intentions there.

He thought about his feelings for Aziraphale.

“Yes, I suppose they do.”

“There are things I have been hiding from you, as you can probably tell.”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s eyes on him. Without returning his gaze, he nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“My family has been quite strict since I was a child. They pushed me to constant training to be one of the top fencing masters, to be even better than my father if possible. My father’s family wasn’t the richest, but he fought for his place in the world and eventually travelled from Italy to here, where he ended up marrying my mother. He revolutionized the fencing world by himself and gained recognition from several important people. My parents wanted me to continue that legacy as much as I could, even if the most important role fell on my brother.”

Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley waited, patiently.

“Gabriel treated me poorly. Looking at it now in retrospective, I should’ve perhaps done something, but at the time it was simply easier to be silent and endure it. He… he was terrible.” Aziraphale was silent for a moment, and Crowley’s hand touched his briefly, taking advantage of the excuse the waves gave him.

“The worst was the fencing practises. He was relentless, quick and controlled in violence. He knew how to inflict the most pain without our father calling him out on it. The scars from that time are a constant reminder. In all honesty, I think I hated my brother, even though I loved him too. He was my sibling, we grew up together, we should have understood one another better. But now, I see that he must have been in great pain too, all of our family’s responsibility befalling on him. Gabriel needed to be the greatest master, the perfect man our surname required. Then my father started to act strangely, and it was worse on him.”

Aziraphale swallowed and continued. “It had already been decided for me to enter religious service, and my mind was focused on being free from family matters once and for all. I was seeing an escape Gabriel didn’t have. Gabriel and my father were under a great deal of stress, as my father’s all-time rival was openly criticizing my father’s way of fencing after he published the book I lent you. My father was now enjoying a great deal of fame, but it came with a high price, as some other fencing masters believed what his rival said. He hit him, really hard. He had fought his way into this world and he was being rejected by respected people. I remember those days; my father was constantly angry, raising his voice at the smallest provocation, and Gabriel was there to support it.”

Crowley was staring at Aziraphale while he talked. His tone was calm, but there was a deep sadness in his expression — he was deeply troubled by the subject at hand. It was clear he hadn’t talked about this before, and a great weight was slipping from his shoulders. It was as if he was confessing his sins.

“Things got worse and worse. The servants were scared, and my father started to be absent some days, not appearing during his classes. It shocked Gabriel a big deal — he must have sensed something was wrong then. I should have done something. Talk to my father, find out what was wrong, or stood up against Gabriel once and for all. I should have supported my family, but my mind was set on the day I would go away from here.”

Aziraphale passed a hand through his face. Crowley waited again, his mind focused on what was being said, on the huge deal which this was — Aziraphale was opening up to him, setting aside his reservations for the first time.

“Then it happened. My father’s rival abruptly died. My father was shaken to his chore, and he suddenly stopped appearing in class for good, his behaviour even more erratic. Gabriel was out of his mind, proclaiming happily that the rival’s death was for the best. The rare occasions in which my father was home, he heavily censored Gabriel’s words. It made my brother as angry as ever, his father was now turning on him, not even answering his questions. I paid the price for that, too, but I could endure everything as my parting day was quickly coming. One day, my father asked for my presence at his studio.”

Aziraphale shivered and Crowley craved to hold him, to make him feel warm again and protect him from all that had already happened.

“In privacy, he told me where he had been all those days. My father apparently had a gambling issue, and to keep his mind out of things, he had gone off to play and bet all our money. He lost everything. Gabriel was too emotional those days and my father knew he would not keep his calm if he knew the truth, so he decided to confide in me instead. I was going to disappear soon either way, so I was to help him try to come up with a solution. My mother knew nothing of the matter, until one day my father informed me, happily, that he had contacted a rich family from Milan. They had a daughter, of similar age to Gabriel’s — she also attended the fencing school. This family was rich and important but craved to be associated with a famous surname just like ours. So they made a deal; Gabriel would marry the daughter and the dowry would help us pay the debt. My father told my mother about it then. Gabriel found out about our economic problem before we could explain it to him. Some days later, as if seeing the problem be solved had put calm in his mind, my father died in his sleep. Gabriel tried to come up with other solutions, but my mother convinced him that the wedding was the only one. Now Gabriel’s responsibility was greater than ever; things had to go smoothly, _perfectly_. There was no space for mistakes.”

Aziraphale choked down a sob, and Crowley could not resist it anymore — he took Aziraphale’s hand, intertwining his fingers with his. Aziraphale didn’t resist and answered with a gentle squeeze.

“It must have been so much for him. Our house, my mother, the fencing school and all its students; everything depended on him. No one could find out about my father’s irresponsibility, or it would only dig our family deeper into a hole. It all needed to be solved quietly. Gabriel simply couldn’t take it. He had found out about this on his own, but I think he needed to be told — the secrecy was making him feel paranoid. He saw things in this problem that didn’t exist, as if we were hiding something else. In the end, he must have felt trapped, cursed with this surname. He freed himself. And now it has to be me.”

Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “The worst thing is that instead of grieving my brother properly, I am more scared about my own life being sold, as I regret losing my opportunity to run away from all of this. As if it was my brother’s fault. I… I am a terrible person.”

Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s hand while he cried. Crowley was silent, letting him cry his heart out, respecting the space he needed. He didn’t let go of his hand, wishing it was enough consolation and anchoring Aziraphale to the _here_ , to the _now_.

The sea reflected the light pouring from the sky, tiny bright dots dancing with the waves. Crowley couldn’t quite distinguish Aziraphale’s face anymore, as the moon was not bright enough for it. He considered taking off his glasses, but he was not brave enough.

“You are not a terrible person, angel. You’re just human. Everything that happened was awful, and it took a great toll on you. You have been scared for so long, you gripped tightly on your chance of running away. Then responsibilities made you stay longer, and two of your family members died. And now you have to face something you were not expecting. I would be fucking terrified too. You’re closing yourself off in that library of yours, punishing yourself. You don’t need to do that, angel. You don’t deserve punishment, you hear me? You don’t, and that’s final. You don’t even deserve any of this. You ought to be free and go anywhere you’d like, be with whoever you like. Stop fencing for good if you prefer it that way. And never have to be forced to solve other people’s problems. I hope you understand that, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale continued to sob, and Crowley slowly breathed, trying to calm himself down. There was rage inside of him towards this world; Aziraphale truly didn’t deserve any of this execrable situation. Crowley felt powerless, unable to help him get out of there, to free Aziraphale from the chains that tied him to his destiny. It was just like his dream — Crowley could only watch Aziraphale burn.

He could, however, hold his hand through it and let themselves enjoy the quiet night, only the sea to remember the taste of Aziraphale’s tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Snow and Dirty Rain" by Richard Siken.


	7. Love's perfect ache

“You really don’t know how to hold your liquor, my dear.”

“Perhaps. And you’re the one enjoying the show, so don’t complain.”

Aziraphale giggled. “You _are_ awfully imaginative when you drink. I kind of miss it when you’re sober.”

“Hey! I can be imaginative when I’m not drunk!”

“I am not so sure about that. You do repeat the same attacks while fencing.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow, comically offended. “Oh, I am sorry, _my lord,_ for not being able to defeat you. I will someday, just you wait. I am getting better and you know it.”

“Oh, hush.”

Crowley grinned. “You know it’s true.”

Aziraphale looked at him from behind his glass of wine. “Well. You _are_ getting better…”

“Ha!”

“... nothing too surprising, thanks to the magnificent talent of your teacher.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, knowing fully well Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to see them, but putting enough intent into the motion so Aziraphale would _feel_ it.

Crowley took a sip of his glass, discreetly observing Aziraphale. Since their first accidental meeting and wine tasting night, it had become a tradition to try new bottles practically every night in the library. Aziraphale had an amazing collection of bottles — Crowley was suspicious that Aziraphale was miracling them out of the ether. There couldn’t be any other explanation. Crowley averted his gaze before Aziraphale realized he was being observed; Crowley was not yet used to seeing Aziraphale in his nightgown. True to his word, he had been using a nightgown for these little meetings. He always used a light blue coloured one that favoured him immensely. It appeared to be soft as a cloud, brushing his skin lightly when Aziraphale moved. It hugged his legs and chest tightly when he was sitting down, a permanent distraction in which Crowley lost himself night and night again. 

“I am a better learner than you anyway.”

“Oh no, you didn’t just say that.”

Crowley wriggled his eyebrows. “I did.”

Aziraphale pouted. “I do my best. It’s not my fault I wasn’t born a swimmer, and the saltwater burns my eyes. The waves make it more difficult too.”

Crowley softened. “It’s a joke, angel. You’re doing well.”

Aziraphale beamed and Crowley’s heart hammered. “Oh, really? Thank you, Crowley.”

“Gah, shaddup.”

They settled in comfortable silence, the fire slowly consuming in front of them. 

“I think tomorrow we could have a free day from classes and walks. Would that suit you?”

Crowley was a bit surprised, like every time Aziraphale asked for a day without their usual activities. “Of course.”

“It’s just that we do need to step away a bit from so much exercising. I wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

Crowley frowned. “I am stronger than I look.”

“I am sure you are.” Aziraphale’s tone was too playful for Crowley’s pride.

Crowley mumbled something like _I’ll show you strength_ but Aziraphale preferred not to comment. 

“And I’ve been studying that book of yours. I’ll master all the movements in no time, and then you’ll see.”

Aziraphale made a non-committal hum. Oh, how Crowley wanted to kick his arse and show him. 

There was another subject going around Crowley’s mind, and it had been there since the night before. “Can I ask you a question? It’s fine if you don’t want to answer.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Alright, ask away.”

“Why didn’t Lord Gabriel get married after your father passed away? Some years passed until Lord Gabriel passed away too, right?”

Aziraphale fell silent, making Crowley think he wouldn’t answer. He was ready to change the subject when Aziraphale spoke again. “My brother slowed down the arrangements. He didn’t want to get married, and he was convinced there had to be another way out of this situation. He pushed and escaped any serious commitment until he realized there was really no way out.” 

Crowley nodded slowly. “Thanks for telling me.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly, staring at his drink.

“I have to confess something.” Crowley’s voice trembled a bit.

“What is it? Is everything alright?”

“I just… em.”

Crowley fidgeted. “I found Lord Gabriel’s diary. And I read it.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale was tense, all the good atmosphere evaporating. Crowley groaned and put his face between his hands. Of course, Aziraphale wasn’t going to be happy about Crowley snooping around; what other reaction was he expecting? 

“I apologise for that. I shouldn’t have read it.”

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s fine, I know how curious you can be. Asking questions, isn’t that your thing?”

Aziraphale laughed briefly, and Crowley smiled. “So. Where are the pages that are missing?”

Aziraphale poured them both more wine and shook his head. “I’m afraid I do not know. I was the one to find it first, it was in Gabriel’s coat. The pages were already torn then.” Aziraphale’s eyes got darker for a second, the memory of that day weighing heavily on him.

“It was Gabriel that tore them apart then?”

“Perhaps? It’s what I thought too. He could have wanted to destroy evidence incriminating our family.”

“Why not destroy the whole diary then?”

Aziraphale frowned. “That’s a rather good question. He could have simply not desired to destroy his fencing notes.”

Crowley was not convinced. It was all too strange; either way, Gabriel had been paranoid and out of his mind before he died. There was probably no good reason behind such an odd action.

Later on, after having more glasses and a conversation that somehow turned into a debate about what tree species looked the most ridiculous ( _How could you say that about pear trees? I love pears!_ ), Crowley slid between his sheets, missing, as every night, Aziraphale’s lovely nap. Before his consciousness faded, he realized that the next day, he was free to go to town and retrieve Newt’s book. And finally start courting Aziraphale.

===

Crowley had never enjoyed staying in one place for too long. He was used to travelling, taking job opportunities as they arose, meeting painters and other artists in different places and countries. He had learned from every single one of them, making him the artist he was today.

This place was different. Days were peaceful, but in a way that always kept Crowley on his toes. He was always waiting for the moment he was going to meet Aziraphale, but also enjoyed his time there in other ways. If he was being honest, he greatly cherished the mornings he spent helping Tracy in the kitchen or making light conversation with Newt (at his expense). The house was nice, the air fresh — Crowley wouldn’t mind spending here more time than expected. 

Here was a man being chased by emotions and memories. Lingering touches keeping his soul alive and mind racing through the night. A hand in his hand while stars watched, the waves slowly lulling them — it was all he could dream. The magic of the scene in his mind distracted him and was making it impossible to continue the painting. He could only go back again and again, remembering Aziraphale’s low voice. It had touched him, deep in his guts, how Aziraphale had dared to bare himself in such a way. What was Crowley to him? How could Aziraphale be so clearly drenched in fear, but be brave at the same time? He had tried to do so many things that scared him — he had decided to learn how to swim even though he was not sure of it, he had taught Crowley fencing even when it recalled bad memories, and was now trying to be sincere with him.

Crowley was voiceless with admiration. He was used to doing daring things, it was in his nature — it didn’t mean anything when he did acts such as those. If he jumped off a cliff into the water, no one would bat an eye; if it was Aziraphale, on the contrary… 

Crowley couldn’t help but smile stupidly at the thought. He ached to feel Aziraphale’s fingers between his again, perhaps in another setting, more private and less cold. Perhaps, in his own bed, or on the couch which had witnessed so many of their conversations…

Like an adolescent obsessed with an infatuation, he couldn’t do anything but dream about it. Every passing day added a new scene, a new memory, a new lingering gaze and light touch to repeat in his mind again and again until he was but a slave of those sensations. Aziraphale swimming, trusting him, taking off his clothes and watching Crowley taking off his own; his steady look when he was trapped beneath Crowley’s body against the tree; his tiny smiles of approval when Crowley did something right while fencing; the seemingly meaningless touches when they were drunk… It was funny to find himself so besotted by the focus of his portrait, and unable to finish the painting.

Here was a man who couldn’t do his job. At some point, without realizing it, he had become unable to paint Aziraphale. Well, it wasn’t true, strictly speaking — he could draw him, sketch him endlessly, in all the expressions and ways he had been blessed to witness. What Crowley couldn’t do was finish the portrait. He had been adding some details, here and there, for several days; there was quite a lot he still needed to perfect, but he found himself unable to work on it for more than ten minutes at a time. He would, unstoppable as a river, end up drawing in his sketchbook. 

It was clear his muse had decided to laugh at him.

Luckily, he had a free day now, granted by Aziraphale. Of course, he had meant it by stopping their classes, as he was still ignorant of Crowley’s true profession — a familiar tinge of guilt pained his stomach — but Crowley had taken the decision to not paint that day either. For the first time since he had arrived in the Isle of Libra, he was going to go to town.

It was Newt’s unlucky day.

“Come on, boy, let’s go already!”

“I’m coming, sir.”

“Not sir, Newt. Crowley.”

Newt fumbled with the buttons of his coat, trying to close them but unable to due to his nervousness. 

Crowley sighed. He had asked Newt to accompany him to his visit in town, forgetting that Newt was scared of him, making him even more anxious than normal. It led to an unforeseen clumsiness. Crowley had not yet specified his intention to visit the library, so as not to worsen the situation. He was curious to meet the lady who could render Newt in such a state.

The town, Tadfield, was not too far away; it was only a twenty-minute walk, descending a road which Crowley had not yet taken. Crowley walked, his hips swaying in his usual manner, behind a nervous Newt. 

“Why is it that you want to go to town, Crowley?”

“Oh, I just thought about how I haven’t visited yet. It was about time I did. Perhaps I could go to some pub or something. Anything you recommend?”

“Well…” Crowley could practically see the anxiety surrounding Newt like an aura. “There is one pub, _The Demon’s Lair._ It’s always open, I don’t know how the owner manages it. There’s a rumour he truly is a demon.”

“He scares you?”

Newt gulped. “Honestly, yes.”

Crowley laughed. “I must meet the devil then.”

The dusty road changed into a rocky one. Crowley took a look around, observing the little house forming the town. It was all very picturesque, full of flowers and not too many people. The scent of the sea could be perceived from there too, and the morning sun lazily shone in the windows. Crowley’s shoes gently tapped along the road, its rocky surface worn down by the constant rain. Crowley wondered if he could, one day, come and paint the landscape. It would be a nice change of pace, and could perhaps make his inspiration return.

“Sir — um, Crowley, I’ll leave you here then. I must go buy some things for Lord Angelo. Should I wait for you somewhere or will you return on your own?”

“I’ll be fine on my own. Thank you, Newt. And good luck.” Crowley winked at him and Newt hurriedly walked away after muttering an excuse.

Crowley wandered through the streets for a bit. There was a bakery, the smell enticingly filling his senses. He was not much for food, but he knew a certain Lord that was — he was tempted to go inside and buy some cakes for him. He mentally noted where the bakery was for when he was going to return to the house; better that way, to keep the cakes as fresh as possible.

He passed by other shops until he stumbled on the pub. By the looks of it, it was the only pub in the entire village, and it certainly lived to its name. Crowley could smell some truly hideous scents from where he was standing in the street, and a drunk man was lying near the door. It was probably not a good idea to go inside, but his curiosity took hold of him, and he stepped inside.

It was just as he imagined. There were some drunk people already, and an ugly man with straw-like hair cleaning behind the counter; the cloth he was holding was so dirty, Crowley wasn’t sure if he was really cleaning or just making things worse. Crowley sat down on the cleanest stool he could find by the counter, in front of the man. From up close, he could see his eyes; they were black, his pupils unseen. It was unsettling.

“What do you want, sir?”

The man’s voice, surely the owner, was dark and as unpleasant as his establishment. 

“Whatever you think won’t make me throw it up the instant I drink it.”

The man growled. Crowley thought he was not going to be served until the man slammed a glass in front of him, and poured something which might be whisky or something else. Crowley took the glass and sniffed it, unsure, under the man’s dark gaze. It didn’t smell so bad, so he took a careful sip. It was indeed whisky, and it tasted surprisingly fine. He took a bigger gulp, and the man nodded, satisfied as if Crowley had passed some unsaid test.

“So, are you the owner, sir?”

“Do not call me sir.”

“Alright. What shall I call you then?”

“Hastur.”

Weird name. But who was Crowley to judge?

Hastur continued to “clean”, not really paying attention to Crowley, but not walking away either.

“Are you the owner then?”

“No, I’m the owner’s brother. What is it with all these little questions?”

Crowley shrugged, taking his time to drink before answering. “I’m just curious, is all.”

“Then be curious elsewhere. We don’t like you lot around here.”

“My lot?”

“You work for the Angelos, right? We don’t like that family very much.”

Crowley frowned. That was odd. “Why so?”

Hastur scoffed. “You must have noticed by now. Something is not right in there. Better to run away now you can.”

Crowley passed a finger over the glass’s border, making it sound slightly, thinking. The Angelo family was not conventional, that much he knew — but he had the feeling Hastur was referring to something else.

“Are you talking about Lord Gabriel Angelo’s death? The suicide?”

Hastur laughed, surprising Crowley and a woman that had been sleeping on the floor until then. His laugh was dry, nearly maniac as if belonging to a madman.

“If you still think it was a suicide, then you have much yet to uncover. I wouldn’t be asking so many questions if I were you.”

With that, Hastur disappeared to the back room.

Crowley stared at the bottom of his glass. What had Hastur meant by that? There was something that was utterly unsettling Crowley about the whole affair since he had read Lord Gabriel’s diary, it was true, but he couldn’t just trust this odd man who he barely knew. 

He much preferred to trust the angel waiting for him.

Crowley looked at his side and saw another man sitting a couple of stools away. The man was staring at Crowley. He had long eyelashes, and two strange horns of hair on his head. 

“I’ll be honest with you, as you look new here. You don’t know me, you don’t know any of us, and least of all, you don’t know the Angelos. I advise you to trust what Hastur says. He worked with that family. He told all of us that something was very wrong with Lord Domenico Angelo.”

Crowley frowned, digesting the new piece of information.

“Is what you’re drinking any good?” asked the man, pointing at Crowley’s glass.

He clearly had a few drinks himself, probably toying with the line of what was too much. 

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

“I’ll take one then.”

Hastur walked in again as if the intentions of this man had summoned him. The man made a gesture and Hastur poured him the same as Crowley.

“Are you sure you should keep drinking, mate?” asked Crowley.

“Don’t worry about it. I have insomnia and this is the only thing that helps me sleep. Hastur here is something like my sleep-paralysis demon.” The man chuckled as if what he had just said was immensely funny.

Crowley turned to Hastur, taking his chance to continue asking. “This man here told me you worked for the Angelos.”

“So?”

“Were you a servant of some sort?”

Hastur made a non-commital noise Crowley interpreted as a yes; Hastur had probably been one of the servants Lord Gabriel had dismissed after his father’s death. By the appearance Hastur was sporting, Lord Gabriel had been right in firing him, or either Hastur had truly let himself go after the event. Crowley understood why Newt was scared of this place — Hastur really appeared to be a nightmare.

Crowley chugged the rest of his drink and slammed some money on the counter. “I’m treating this lad here. Thanks for the drink and the answers.”

The drunk raised his glass gratefully, and Crowley left the pub.

===

The bell of the bookshop’s door rang when Crowley stepped in. The wood floor creaked, reminding him of the sounds of Aziraphale’s house.

“Welcome!”

Crowley searched for the source of the voice and found no one. Amused, he thought that perhaps the bookshop was able to talk. He was sure Aziraphale would love the idea very much.

A girl with long, dark hair pinned up and a flowy dark blue dress stepped in. She was wearing big, rounded glasses, and it suited her face perfectly. 

“Hello, sir. Anything I could help you with?”

“Uh, no, thanks. I’m just browsing.”

The girl smiled and let him roam as he wished inside the bookshop. It was a very old establishment, judging by the state of the wood and the walls. There even was a fine layer of dust in some of the most unused shelves. 

“If you see a spider, please don’t molest her. I allow them to live here.”

Crowley grimaced. He hated spiders and all kinds of bugs. He glanced at the girl again, a bit surprised she let the books look this unkempt. It couldn’t be good for attracting customers. 

He wandered around the bookshop, pretending he was not looking for anything specific. He inspected the variety of shelves and books and was honestly surprised to find a big selection of genres. There was even a shelf of magical grimoires, bigger than some other more respectable genres. He found receptacles with odd-looking liquids and _things_ floating inside which Crowley took great interest in. He loved spooky-looking things. At least this little visit could keep his mind off everything Hastur had told him; his dark voice still rang in his ears, resonating with the strange objects surrounding Crowley.

Crowley felt as if he had stepped inside a witch’s house. Perhaps he was mistaken, and the bookshop was elsewhere. This had to be an occultist shop of some sort, despite the great assortment of books. First, he ought to search for Newt’s secret book. If it wasn’t there, he could simply ask the witch girl where the true bookshop was. Decisive, he walked towards the shelf most distant from the entrance as Newt had indicated. 

There it was — a big, red book, with no dust around its place on the shelf. He glanced around, making sure no one was observing him, and took it. The shelf was a bit higher than he expected, and he couldn’t quite see what was on there, so he stuck his arm in the place left by the book. His fingers brushed something. He tried to grab it, and it slipped from his grasp several times. He swore a couple of times but in the end, he grasped it.

It was a book, as expected, and a rather small one. The cover was purple, and it fit in Crowley’s hand perfectly. He put the red book back to its place to take a better look. The pages were a bit yellow, and there was a flower drawn on the first blank page. It was kind of cute. The title read as: _The Nice and Accurate Ways to Steal a Heart._ It was a bit strange, really, but if Newt’s apparent success was anything to go by, it couldn’t hurt to try.

“Oh spirits, you too?”

Crowley flinched and let go of the book, which made a tiny thud against the floor. He turned around to see the witch girl staring at him. She looked like she had been there the whole time. Crowley’s face flushed.

“It’s not what it looks like—”

“Ugh, you all always say the same. Was it Newt who told you?”

Oh. _Oh_. Crowley grinned, realization dawning on him. He had been so stupid to take this long to realize. He took a moment to grab the book again before speaking.

“Ah, so you’re Newt’s girl.”

The witch girl huffed. “I am not his anything. He comes here quite a lot and yes, he is kind of cute, but he also comes to this particular shelf to study this particular book quite often. He thinks no one has noticed, the poor boy.” The girl shook her head, but her little smile didn’t go unnoticed. “I’m Anathema.”

“Crowley.” He bowed his head slightly, and Anathema smiled.

“Well, Mr Crowley, did Newt send you?”

Crowley was back to feel slightly embarrassed. “Kind of, actually. He was the one to tell me how to find this book. He was sure you hadn’t noticed it.”

“I did, eventually. He regularly comes instead of Lord Angelo, and I observed the disappearance of this book from its original shelf when he started sneaking to the back of the bookshop. Wasn’t hard to find it when he was gone.”

Crowley frowned, feeling a bit protective of the valet. “And you know why he reads it?”

Anathema’s expression, surprisingly, softened. “Yes, I do. It’s why I haven’t told him about it, it’s kind of endearing.”

Well, look at that. Newt actually had a chance. Crowley couldn’t wait to tell Aziraphale and Tracy about it. 

“How do you know Newt?”

“I also work for Lord Angelo. Met him there.”

Anathema beamed. “Oh, you know Lord Angelo? How is he doing these days? It’s been quite some time since he visited me. There are no clients quite like him.”

“He’s perfectly fine. He also misses this shop, I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.” Crowley smiled fondly.

Anathema’s eyes suddenly strangely focused on him. “ _Oh._ I see it now.” Her smile turned into something wicked, and Crowley gulped. Perhaps this girl was a bit too much for Newt.

“You know what? Take the book.”

Crowley frowned, confused. “But I haven’t paid for it.”

“Take it, it’s on me.” Anathema dismissed it with a hand movement. “In exchange, you have to come back and tell me how it’s going.”

Crowley cleared his throat. He had the distinct feeling this girl had seen right through him; it was best to do as she said and not think of it further. Best to avoid problems. 

Newt had a big storm coming.

As if summoned, the entrance bell rang and Newt stepped in. He had a bouquet in his hand, and Crowley had never seen him more nervous, which was saying something. Crowley and Anathema exchanged a look. 

“Miss Anathema? Are you here?” 

Anathema hurriedly walked towards him, followed by Crowley. He was in no rush; he wanted to see the show.

“Crowley? What are you doing here?”

Crowley grinned devilishly. “Taking a look around.”

Newt stood there, perplexed, until Anathema cleared his throat and remembered what he was doing.

“These are for you, miss.”

Anathema smiled sweetly, bewildering Crowley. She certainly didn’t look like the sweet, in love type of girl, and was astounded to find that it was Newt who was making such an effect. Crowley tightened his grip on the book — it truly was his one chance. He was suddenly filled with determination and walked towards the door.

“Thanks, Book Girl!”

===

Crowley’s hand was wrapped around a bag of cakes and the book while he returned to the house. His mind was swirling around in that anxious way of his.

Hastur’s words troubled him. Crowley knew there had been servants in the house who were not working there anymore, fired by Lord Gabriel. He recalled how Aziraphale and Tracy had explained it — Lord Gabriel had become too furious and paranoid, probably thinking the servants knew something he didn’t or were plotting against his family. Lord Gabriel had been convinced there was a secret he was not being a part of; a dangerous one. Hastur had been one of those servants. Crowley grimaced at the thought; he couldn’t stand the idea of that odd man being near Aziraphale.

Rumours and secrets were inevitable among servants, and didn’t have much importance. What troubled him the most was not that; it was the idea Hastur had introduced in his mind, pestering him. Even if they were the illusions of a paranoid man, be it either Lord Gabriel or Hastur. It was clear there had been something wrong with Lord Domenico and the servants had noticed; it must have been all the gambling and debt business Aziraphale had mentioned. It was only natural for the Lord not to share those problems with the servants, originating such paranoia.

Hastur had implied something about Lord Gabriel’s death. It deeply worried Crowley, and the thought had been increasing steadily in his mind since he had left the pub. He wanted to be by Aziraphale’s side now and keep him safe.

Just in case Lord Gabriel had not killed himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Arsonist’s Lullabye by Hozier.


	8. You've got me on my knees

Cheerful voices welcomed Crowley as he stepped inside the house. The laughter coming from the kitchen contrasted with the hammering of his heart and the worries he had carried with him along the way.

He headed towards the kitchen, following the voices, and was shocked by the scene in front of him. Tracy was there cooking, but the surprising part was that _Aziraphale_ was there too. Crowley stood on the threshold, unsure of what to do or say.

“Oh, Crowley, you’re here!”

Aziraphale beamed, so pleased to see Crowley it hurt his heart. A wave of relief washed over him; Aziraphale was _fine,_ he was _safe,_ and he had been worrying over nothing.

“Are you alright, dear? You look quite shaken.”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered a bit, clearly worried about Crowley. The painter summoned a false smile that he was sure didn’t convince Aziraphale at all, and swiftly changed the subject.

“Everything is fine. What have you been up to?”

“Oh! You’ll see.”

Aziraphale made a hand gesture to invite Crowley in. “We’ve been trying to come up with a new type of bread. I suggested putting in some of the apples from the garden, but dear Tracy here is completely against it.”

Tracy huffed. “I can’t have you mess around with my bread like that, my lord.”

“Nonsense. It will be scrumptious.”

Tracy shook her head, and Aziraphale turned around to look at Crowley again.

“How was your morning, Crowley? And what do you have here?” Aziraphale’s eyes shone with anticipation.

Crowley grinned, this time for real, and handed the box to Aziraphale. “I may or may not remember how much you like sweet things, angel.” The endearment escaped his lips before he could control himself. Crowley shot a glance at Tracy, searching for any kind of reaction, but she was wisely feigning ignorance.

Crowley returned his attention to Aziraphale, who was rummaging through the box of cakes.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

Crowley thought that yes, he should have, as he watched Aziraphale’s excitement while he smelled the pastries.

“Can I try one now?”

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale took one, with pink icing and cream inside. He studied it for a bit, while expectation built inside Crowley. He carefully approached it to his lips, and Crowley couldn’t help but lick his own. Aziraphale opened his mouth and sank his teeth into the pastry, tinting his lips with the pink icing.

Crowley knew what Aziraphale tended to do when he drank an especially delightful wine. It was impossible to get used to it, of course, and it made Crowley’s body react and vibrate like a bell every single time those heavenly sounds reached his ears and reverberated through his body. Crowley didn’t feel like he could survive through those sounds while Aziraphale _ate._

A moan escaped from Aziraphale’s lips, coming from deep inside his throat and ending up in Crowley’s groin. Crowley’s face was as red as the apples on the counter. He shifted his weight, unable to keep calm while witnessing such a display of pleasure. It was not possible Aziraphale wasn’t aware of the effect he was provoking. Could he truly be that oblivious? Either way, Crowley’s eyes were fixed on Aziraphale’s expression, the way his eyes fluttered close in delight; how his lips looked rosy and shiny, a pink tongue peeking out from them.

“Oh, _Crowley,_ this is utterly excellent.”

Crowley’s breath was caught in his throat, leaving him speechless; the way his name was said was not being processed correctly by his brain. The mix of happiness and moaning in it didn’t help his situation, his blood now going southwards more markedly.

“How rude of me not to share. Do you want some?” Aziraphale seemed a little ashamed and had stopped eating. Crowley shook his head, as his only desire was for Aziraphale to keep eating. Aziraphale arched an eyebrow, still a bit shy, but decided to continue eating.

And then came the cream. Crowley’s mind, lingering on the previous moans, had completely forgotten about the most important of details regarding his gift. A bit of cream fell from the cake to Aziraphale’s hands and, with a quiet _oh dear_ he brought the pastry to his mouth again. Crowley only had time to hold his breath before Aziraphale _slurped_ the cream with another moan, and then licked the remaining cream from his hand. He was thorough, his tongue cleaning his fingers until not even a drop of cream was left behind. Crowley swallowed, his throat dry; he got closer to the counter to put it between Aziraphale and him, in a poor attempt to hide his erection.

“Well, I think I’m going to finish my chores now.” Tracy’s voice sounded from somewhere behind Crowley, but he couldn’t bother to pay attention to it. His entire focus was on Aziraphale; the lord nodded towards Tracy in acknowledgement, his mouth still full. Crowley saw his Adam Apple bob while he swallowed, for then to repeat the process.

Crowley’s knees went weak and he sat on one of the stools, miraculously close to him. He rested his head on his hands, with his elbows on the counter; he was ready for the continuation of the show. This was, of course, lying to himself; he could never be fully prepared for the shower of moans the cake elicited from Aziraphale. The lord took his time savouring the cake, letting go sounds of pleasure here and there with every bite. He sometimes said Crowley’s name too, sending a sweet shiver down Crowley’s body, making him wonder who was enjoying those treats more.

When Aziraphale finished and freed his fingers from any remaining crumbs and cream (making Crowley wish he could be trusted with such a task), he directed his attention towards the box again. Crowley straightened his back, attentive; was Aziraphale going to pick another cake? That could begin to be dangerous — Crowley was certain he was going to come in his pants if this continued. To his mingled relief and disappointment, Aziraphale simply observed the box and then smiled at him coquettishly. Crowley’s heart jumped; perhaps Aziraphale was indeed aware of the effect he had on Crowley.

Crowley noticed a small drop of cream near Aziraphale’s lower lip. He tried to stop a rebellious grin from spreading on his face, as a thought occurred to him. He had not yet gotten the opportunity to study the book he had just acquired, but he was fairly sure there had to be something about basic seduction, right? It had to be the oldest trick in the book. He had suffered passively enough; it was time he was active too. It was also a good opportunity to study Aziraphale’s reaction.

He extended his arm and with a quick movement of his fingers, lightly touched Aziraphale’s lip, cleaning it of cream. Then, with his eyes watching Aziraphale’s expression, he licked his own finger, making a show of his tongue similarly to Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide, red tinting his cheeks.

“This _is_ very good, angel,” purred Crowley.

A strange light appeared in Aziraphale’s eyes, and Crowley recognized it; it was the one he had seen when he had slammed Aziraphale against the tree. The lord stared at him for a moment, and then moved, straightening out his clothes, which were already perfectly placed. There was a smug smile on his face, which puzzled Crowley — he had expected to make Aziraphale flustered, and even though he had observed some reaction, it was not the timid mess he had hoped. Perhaps Aziraphale had no interest in Crowley, after all. Still, he gripped like a drowning man onto the light red colouring visible in the lord’s cheeks; it was not the time to lose hope. Not just yet.

“Thank you for your gifts, Crowley. I expect to see you this enthusiastic about our fencing classes tomorrow.”

Aziraphale looked at him up and down, in a similar manner to when Crowley took his clothes off on the beach, and walked away. Crowley’s head was turning; was the suggestive tone he detected in Aziraphale’s voice just in his imagination? He needed to study the book as soon as possible.

===

Crowley lay down on his bed. He was deeply tired; the emotions of the day had worn him off. The afternoon had come and passed peacefully, and he had spent it in the garden taking short naps. They had not helped him get over the feeling of exhaustion that weighed on his bones, but for some reason, he was unable to fall asleep now.

He considered going to the library, and see if Aziraphale was also awake — but something was tingling in his mind, bothering him. Crowley had not yet investigated The Book fully, and it was about time. He had left it on the bedside table as if to remind himself of reading it before sleep. He took it and opened it.

Crowley contemplated the flower drawing for a couple of seconds, following its intricate shape with a finger before redirecting his attention to The Book’s contents. The yellowed pages creaked when he turned them, impatient as he was to get to the important parts. The title of a random chapter caught his attention, and he frowned, trying to decipher its meaning.

_“Lette the wheel of Fate turne, let harts en- join, there are othere fyres than mine.”_

_Agh_. Reading this was going to be a headache. Crowley scanned through the page, wishing to show it to Aziraphale, as he was sure the lord wouldn’t have any issue deciphering it. Alas, that would interfere with Crowley’s plans, so it was not an option. Crowley entertained himself with the thought of Aziraphale reading to him, while he rested his head on that lovely lap and Aziraphale’s soothing voice lulled him, his fingers caressing Crowley’s hair — perhaps it was not such a bad idea. He smiled proudly; he had the imagination to come up with lovely situations. The Book was surely going to become useless fast enough. There was a chance he didn’t even need it.

Well, Crowley was already there, with the book in his hands. He could at least give it a chance.

One of the chapters had a strange addition that caught his eye. There, on the bottom of the page was a sentence, disconnected from the rest of the text: _He is not what he says he is._ Crowley grimaced; it was too on point. No, he wasn’t being honest about his job to Aziraphale, he already knew that, no need to remind him. A pang of guilt twisted his insides, but there was no point in dwelling on it. He tried to focus on the rest of the book.

Twenty minutes passed and Crowley slammed the book shut. He groaned, frustrated. Nothing of what he had read had been of any use, as half of the things suggested there were tactics he had already tried. What would Aziraphale do in his situation?

He would write a list.

Crowley considered this for a second. It was not a bad idea; he could write a simple list of the options he had read in the book so far, and then cross the ones he had already used. Then, Crowley could see which ones were left, and decide if they were interesting enough or not.

He took a piece of paper and began writing.

  * _take walks_
  * _excuses to spend time together_
  * _gifts_
  * _flowers_
  * _written notes. poems?_
  * _meeting the parents_
  * _impress him_
  * _giving him something that reminds him of me_
  * _dance?_



Crowley’s expression, when reading the note, could be described as a mix between a pout and a frown. He was not happy as he began to cross options off.

  * ~~_take walks_~~
  * ~~_excuses to spend time together_~~
  * ~~_gifts_~~
  * _flowers_
  * _written notes. poems?_
  * ~~_meeting the parents_~~
  * _impress him_
  * _giving him something that reminds him of me_
  * _dance?_



Crowley had doubts about the _impress him_ part. The only possibility that came to mind was the swimming classes, but he doubted those had been enough to impress Aziraphale. He was surely not good enough with fencing as to consider it either, and the time he had slammed Aziraphale against the apple tree couldn’t really be thought of as impressing him.

He wiggled his legs in frustration and continued reading the list. Flowers? It was easy, the garden was full of them. The problem was that it implied cutting the flowers from there, and Aziraphale cared about the garden, so it was kind of risky.

Poetry was difficult. He had never written anything like it before, and it was one of Aziraphale’s favourite genres; he was sure to have high standards. Crowley wouldn’t be able to stomach it if Aziraphale made fun of him.

Something that reminded Aziraphale of Crowley… What? A lock of his hair? Crowley would prefer to die before messing around with it. He would consider it as he continued reading this headache of a book in hopes of finding a better idea.

Crowley was tempted to straight-up erase dancing from the list. He was an awful dancer, even if he enjoyed it quite a lot. The thought of making himself ridiculous in front of Aziraphale made his face burn — he had done that way too many times already. Crowley needed to _impress_ him, not make Aziraphale laugh at him, no matter how beautiful his laugh was.

Crowley could perhaps continue to give Aziraphale gifts as he had done with the cakes — the jury was out on who that gift was for in reality — and think further about ways to impress Aziraphale.

He turned around in bed again, ignoring the uncomfortable way The Book was prodding against his ribcage. An annoying thought demanded to be acknowledged, but Crowley was not prepared to face it.

Hastur’s words had really taken a toll on him.

Watching Aziraphale come out of his prison willingly, baking with Tracy as he used to do before, and experiencing the heavenly show that it was to see Aziraphale eat had distracted him. Aziraphale had been safe and sound, even chirpier than usual, and it had subsided the pang of anxiety and worry in Crowley. However, it didn’t make it all disappear; the fact that Aziraphale may be in danger was eating Crowley’s insides, no matter how he tried to distract himself with courting methods.

He was excited to try and attract Aziraphale’s attention, that part wasn’t a lie — but now, more than ever, Crowley wished he could just take Aziraphale away from all of it. Run away together or perhaps kidnap him. Crowley speculated about how angry Tracy would get and shivered. Not a good vision to have.

The problem was identifying the danger, as Crowley couldn’t know where it could come from, or if it even existed; hence there was no way to fully trust everyone he met. Anyone could have been involved or could know something he didn’t and keep it secret. Crowley was reminded of Lord Gabriel, and how paranoid he had appeared to be before he died; Crowley understood that now.

He was surrounded by people and he felt utterly alone. He was reminded of Aziraphale then.

Did he know about it, the possibility of Lord Gabriel being murdered instead of it being a suicide? Did that innocent, good man even consider it?

Could Crowley trust Aziraphale?

He could have hidden everything. He could have known it from the start and decided not to tell anyone, least of all Crowley. With a cold shudder, Crowley realized Aziraphale _could have been the murderer._ It would be easy to hide the proof; he was the young one, the victim of his brother’s rage. Lord Gabriel had been paranoid, Crowley was sure of it; enough people had talked about it as proof. It could be easy, sending Newt to town for any reason, convincing Lord Gabriel to go walk alone. Then go out covertly and push him, and come back to his library as if nothing had happened.

It was easy. Too easy.

Even so, Crowley refused to believe it. Aziraphale? He was a literal angel, with a soft, big heart full of unreciprocated love towards the world surrounding him. Aziraphale sought freedom, of a life he could control; it made no sense for him to provoke Lord Gabriel’s death, as it consequently chained him to the Angelo family forever. His brother’s responsibilities were now his, and he was unhappy. There was no way anyone could fake that.

Then who could have murdered Lord Gabriel? And for what purpose?

No one seemed to benefit from it. Neither Tracy nor Newt, least of all Aziraphale. Lady Angelo hadn’t played a role in any of the problems, as she hadn’t even known what was going on until it was too late.

Crowley groaned and slammed The Book on the nightstand. The blankets were tangled up around his body, the consequence of all his moving around, so he kicked them off until they ended up in a ball at the end of the bed. He was getting himself too worked up by this; perhaps that had been Hastur’s purpose from the start. As an ex-servant, he probably held a grudge against his old masters, making the new family worker think ill of them. The Angelos already had a tricky past; it was easy to plant a seed of doubt about them in anyone. Besides, Crowley knew nothing about Hastur — there was a good possibility the barman had simply been toying with him. And nothing else.

And either way, what could Crowley do? A painter like him, with not much money to his name, or a place to call home? He was no one. He couldn’t protect Aziraphale even if he wanted to. He could simply be there for him, in any way the lord wished. His presence could deter any assassin to come for him. If there even was such a thing.

Crowley was too stressed to sleep. The temperature of the room was oddly warm, or it was simply Crowley provoking heat with his fumbling around. His nightgown was sticking uncomfortably to his skin; he hated the blasted things. He regretted not going to bed in the nude. Adrenaline flowed in his veins, and his eyes refused to close. Not even listing his options had appeased him; his body craved activity. Why deny it further?

Crowley got up suddenly with the force of his abdomen and legs, the speed of his movements sending a wave of dizziness to his head. He left his room before he could reconsider his actions. The house was awfully quiet, only the creaks provoked by Crowley’s walking breaking the silence. He headed towards the library, as usual, but found it dark and cold. The chimney was completely dark, not even a sparkle indicating how much time had passed since it had been used. Crowley was not used to seeing the library like this; alien and cold, all the usual warmness gone with Aziraphale. And where was he, either way? Crowley stood on the threshold, unsure of how to proceed. He considered walking back to his room, but the idea of staying up all night, turning around in the bedsheets, made him grimace.

Instead, he could go exploring again.

Last time he did so he had discovered Lord Gabriel’s diary; perhaps this time he would find something that would put his mind to rest. Or he wouldn’t find anything, and then he would feel miraculously tired and would go back to his bed to finally sleep. Just like a responsible adult would do.

Luckily, the house had plenty of rooms to entertain him with. Crowley had searched into half of them that first night of insomnia; it was time to take a peek into the others. He walked past some of the doors, ignoring Lord Gabriel’s and some others. Sombre paintings on the walls welcomed him in a hall where he had not been before. At Crowley’s right was the only door, whispering for him to open it. He had no other option other than to try; the door let him access with a whine.

The moment Crowley stepped inside he sneezed. Clearly, the room had been unoccupied for some time, and it was full of dust; everything was covered with a blanket, giving the room a decrepit sensation of stillness in time. Crowley put his candle on the nightstand, sending a cloud into the air, and took a look around.

Much like Lord Gabriel’s room, and his own, there was not a lot of furniture present. With what Crowley knew now, he wondered if the family had sold some of their belongings when they first faced their financial crisis. There were still some decorations, but overall it was pretty austere for such a big house, especially knowing the Angelos was supposed to be a rich family.

Crowley took the blankets off, sending a big cloud of dust into the air and directly to his lungs. He tried to muffle his coughs, afraid someone would arrive, attracted by the noise. His candle flickered dangerously with the breeze but didn’t go out — Crowley really ought to be more careful. He left the sheets crumpled on the ground.

There was a table, a bed and a closet. After inspection, Crowley proved there was nothing inside of the table’s drawers nor in the closet, only some dead bugs he preferred not to study for longer.

Perhaps this was a guest room of some sort. It was a wonder why they had not made Crowley occupy this room, as it deemed more appropriate to his condition, but he was grateful; judging by the location of the window, this room was probably darker during the day than the one he was currently using. No good for painting. Not that he was doing much of it these days, his main job now was worrying and pining after an angelic lord.

With a sigh, he sat down on the bed, regretting it immediately, as it creaked painfully. The bed was oddly hard and uncomfortable, and Crowley bounced a couple of times more, testing it, hoping the bed wouldn’t crumble under his weight. Besides, the house made plenty of noises every night, so a bit of creaking shouldn’t alarm anyone, or so Crowley’s optimistic side preferred to imagine. Tracy had nearly caught him once, but he was now paying attention to the hall’s noises to avoid that to occur again. If necessary, he could simply roll under the bed, hoping to find no eight-legged friends there.

Speaking of the bed, its stiffness wasn’t normal, as if something was caught beneath the mattress. Crowley stood up and moved it with a huff and, eureka, there was something there. It was quite large but thin, and it didn’t weigh much. It was wrapped in some crumbling yellowish paper which was easily torn off by Crowley’s fingers. He knew what it was even before unwrapping it— he had been working in his field for quite some time.

The painting was quickly revealed, and Crowley let the paper fall to the ground and join the sheets. Crowley put it down on top of the bed, the mattress now back in place, and grabbed his candle once again to inspect it. The flickering light of the candle illuminated the painting, its surface reflecting its dance.

Surprised, Crowley realized he was staring at a portrait. The paint was dark, making Crowley wrinkle his nose disapprovingly. Too many shades of grey had been used, giving a sad aspect to the portrait; hence why he much preferred to use shades of purple for shadows, blues or black, but never so much grey.

The colours weren’t the most interesting part of it. There was no face, as the space for it was unfinished and damaged. Crowley touched it, caressing the broken canvas. The texture was weird under his fingers, with a dark brown colour, as if it had been partially burned. Crowley could not approve of the artist’s choices, but to do such a thing to a painting was a crime. He wondered who could have burnt the painting; had it been the painter themselves, or someone else? Curiously, the burnt parts didn’t cover the entirety of it, as if someone had been holding the painting close to a fire and then drowned out the flames after they destroyed the face. It was disturbing.

Crowley stepped away, taking in the whole picture. The light changed, flickered and transformed, partially covering the painting in shadows. It complimented the grey of it, the overall sadness it evoked. His gaze caught in the hands of the subject, and a flair of recognition went through his mind. He knew who the subject of this painting had been.

It was Aziraphale.

Crowley could recognize those hands anywhere. Soft, gentle but strong, with round and well-cared for nails, gently resting on Aziraphale’s lap. There was even a hint of gold on one of his pinkies, the only alive thing in the canvas. It wasn’t well detailed, but Crowley could recognize the shape of it. This had to be the previous painter’s work, the one Lady Angelo had mentioned when they met. Aziraphale had refused to make the painter’s job easier, and they had failed — thus why it was unfinished.

But why was it here? Crowley doubted this had been the painter’s room; it was way too dark for it. There was nothing else to base this assumption on, but his gut told him so, and he usually tended to listen to it. The painting had been hidden and covered with paper as if in shame. If the painter had done so, why not destroy it completely, or take it with them? What was the point of hiding it?

Crowley frowned, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. This was strange, very strange. He drew the candle closer, inspecting the corners of the canvas in hopes of finding a name, a signature, _anything_ that could give light to the painter’s identification. There was nothing. Crowley closed his fingers tightly around the base of the candle, frustrated; his hand, covered in sweat, lost grip of it without a warning. Hot wax tipped over and fell directly into the canvas. The painting lost territory to it, leaving big holes on the surface.

“Oh, shit shit shit shit-”

Crowley hurriedly put the candle on the ground and, taking a sock off, he hit the painting with it drowning the smoke that was starting to arise. Crowley could not set the house on fire; it would be mortifying. He coughed and his eyes burned, the tears gathering there making it even more difficult to see.

Eventually, the painting stopped hissing menacingly and Crowley collapsed to the ground, putting the knees close to his chest with his face buried in them. His ragged breathing filled the room, the smell of burnt paint rapidly becoming too much to stand. Oh, how he hated candles. His way of walking and candles had never been a good combination, and he always forgot to pay attention. Luckily, nothing too bad had happened and, either way, the painting was already damaged.

Crowley got up again, put the painting back where he found it, kicked the papers beneath the bed and covered everything with blankets. Time to leave and get into bed like he should have been, and probably sleep without the irritating nightgown.

===

The floor was hard and merciless when Crowley lost his balance.

“I think you just fell, my dear.”

Crowley groaned. “I can see that. Take that smug smile off your face.”

Aziraphale continued to inspect his sword, feigning obliviousness, his smile only getting broader.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean,” Crowley got up as gracefully as he could, ignoring how he nearly fell again in the process, “that I’m going to make you eat your sword.”

“We’ll see, we’ll see.”

They put themselves into position once more. Crowley ignored the drops of sweat cascading down his back; he was graceful and artistic, even more than Aziraphale, and he was going to win. No matter how utterly distracted he was by Aziraphale’s ability and clear contentment. The bastard had been winning in all their fights, and it was time to show how good Crowley was beneath his attractive facade.

The fight started. Crowley, learning from his own previous mistakes, waited for Aziraphale to attack. He caught a spark in Aziraphale’s eyes he was starting to become familiar with; he repressed a groan, as he knew what it meant. Aziraphale was about to kick his arse again.

However, Crowley wouldn’t go defeated without putting up a good fight. Their swords met, again and again; all of the times, Crowley felt he was about to lose, as Aziraphale’s sword got way too close to his chest, but somehow he managed to defend himself against all of the attacks. Crowley tried a few attacks himself; sadly they were immediately torn into shreds by Aziraphale. Either way, he had improved a lot, which was now evident. Days ago he was incapable of doing anything else but defend himself against Aziraphale ruthless attacks. Now, he was starting to get used to it, seeing patterns in Aziraphale’s movements.

“You’ll be the one falling on your buttocks next, angel.”

Aziraphale lifted his chin in a way that proclaimed doom for Crowley. Aziraphale deflected another of Crowley’s poor attempts at winning. Crowley memorized the sight of him there, the way his hair stuck to his forehead and those happy wrinkles surrounding his eyes making him even more gorgeous.

“Don’t be so sure about it. You’ve improved, but you are certainly not on my level.”

Crowley was torn apart between kissing that smug expression off Aziraphale’s lips and putting his mind on actual fencing.

He moved his right foot forward, seeing a space in Aziraphale’s defence. Crowley could do it, he could already see it; Aziraphale falling on the ground, perplexed, his pretty mouth agape, and admiration dawning on him. Crowley would impress him finally, offering his help to get up. He wouldn’t even make fun of Aziraphale, but instead, accept his victory coolly and maturely. Aziraphale would certainly fall in love with him, see him with new eyes, and begin to look at Crowley the way he looked at pastries.

Crowley’s reverie was cruelly interrupted by a sudden movement of Aziraphale’s right hand. The lord, without hesitating for one second, passed the sword from his hand to the other. Taking the change thanks to Crowley’s puzzlement, he made a gesture with his wrist and the sword touched Crowley’s chest.

He had lost. Again.

“What the fuck?”

“Watch your mouth, dear. And while you’re at it, close it or else a fly will get inside.”

Crowley closed his mouth on the spot, to open it again. “But… how? You…”

Aziraphale laughed. “You really weren’t expecting my father to make us train with both hands, right? He always said to be prepared to surprise the enemy.”

“That is NOT fair. That is SO not fair, angel. How could you think I could defeat you if you didn’t tell me you could fence with both hands? Where’s the justice in this?”

“Oh, please. It would be no fun if I told you.” Aziraphale pouted and Crowley lost in another way.

He began to walk, making circles around Aziraphale. “You are a bastard, you know that? To make my hopes go up and then defeat me in such a way. I am offended.”

Aziraphale tutted. “There’s no need to be so dramatic. A good fencing master must be prepared, at all times, for anything.”

Crowley shook his head, one of his ginger curls bouncing on his forehead. “Don’t lie to me, Aziraphale. You did it just to prove how amazing you are.”

Aziraphale glanced at him sideways and wriggled his shoulders. “I don’t need to prove that, do I?”

Crowley barked with laughter. “Oh, please spare me, great fencing master, compared to whom I am nothing but a mere commoner.”

Aziraphale playfully punched him in the shoulder. Crowley blinked — that was unexpected. He stared at the place Aziraphale’s hand had made contact with his arm, mind completely distracted.

It was kind of pathetic how a light contact could make him feel.

He loved how Aziraphale was shining. Perhaps fencing didn’t make him particularly happy, with all the unpleasant memories attached to it, but it would seem as if Aziraphale enjoyed it when it was with Crowley. Or so the painter hoped. Crowley’s eyes lingered momentarily on the shiny spot with droplets of sweat beneath Aziraphale’s lip. Crowley licked his lips unconsciously, filing the image in his mind with the rest of mental pictures he had been gathering of Aziraphale.

Crowley was certainly enjoying all the times they fenced together. It was exhilarating, as it speeded up the blood in his veins. Their feet stomping the ground, metal clashing again and again. They were unable to stop themselves from smiling. Crowley was happy to find Aziraphale had to use more tricks up his sleeve to defeat him, as he hoped they both were having fun with these exchanges. Or perhaps Aziraphale was simply enjoying defeating Crowley time and time again, the tricky bastard.

Either way, Crowley never wanted these classes to come to an end. He could perhaps feign clumsiness if he observed he was becoming too good. For the time being, he doubted that would be a problem.

He had yet to impress Aziraphale somehow, and he had failed to do so again today. However, that was no problem, as he had come prepared. Crowley cocked his head, not resisting to show it anymore.

“Well, as you rise as the winner yet again, let me give you your prize.”

Aziraphale stared at him, curious, while Crowley walked happily over to his jacket, put aside on a rack. He fumbled inside his pockets until he found what he was looking for; he took it and walked back to where Aziraphale was waiting, a dangerous grin plastered on his face.

“Oh! Oh my dear, it is positively beautiful.”

It was a red tulip, its petals a shining red that matched Crowley’s hair. The painter was quite proud of his idea; not only did it cross the “giving flowers” option off the list, but also “give something that reminds him of you”.

Aziraphale took it, carefully, and smelled its faint fragrance, while Crowley watched spellbound. His skin prickled with the light pouring from Aziraphale. His fingers twitched with the faint desire to paint coming back to him for an instant; Aziraphale, his flickering eyelashes catching golden sparks as the red complemented the blues and whites of his clothes.

“You are too kind, my dear. Thank you so much.”

Crowley’s tongue tried to unknot itself, unsuccessfully. “Ngk. It’s nothing.”

A moment passed in which they simply stared at each other with shy smiles. Suddenly, Aziraphale moved close to him, his feet as fast as when he fenced. Their breaths mingled together, while Crowley’s heart bumped in his chest. He could smell Aziraphale, his sweet and sunshiney fragrance filling his senses; red on his cheeks, red on the tulip between them, and stormy eyes occupying his vision. Crowley tried not to stare at his lips, he really did, but his traitorous eyes descended and contemplated them. Crowley wondered, in his hazy mind, if Aziraphale was about to kiss him.

Their proximity was becoming impossible to resist when Aziraphale changed course, his head tilting to the side. His nose brushed Crowley’s chin, who repressed a shiver; and then a feather touch graced Crowley’s cheek. The painter opened and closed his mouth several times, only consonants coming from it.

“See you later, my dear,” Aziraphale said, hastily, as if he was out of breath, which he hadn’t been while fencing; and even faster he walked away from the room.

A red petal attracted his attention to his feet. His mind blank, Crowley took it and pressed it against his lips, the velvet sensation on his lips pulling him back to reality.

He brought his other hand to his cheek but didn’t dare to touch it, as if afraid of erasing what had just happened. A thunder had taken possession of his heart as he closed his eyes, breathing it the lingering scent of Aziraphale and the tulip.

Aziraphale had just kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Layla by Eric Clapton  
> Red tulip meaning: passion, declaration of love  
> ;)


	9. Find the sun that will burn all our pain away

There was something quiet and powerful about knowing someone. Fleeting, like a bird scared of thunder, Aziraphale’s emotions jumped from one place to the other. He gathered little bits of memories, shining fragments that fed the bird in his chest, and rolled them around in his hand at night when no one was looking and he was not expected to be a person anymore.

It was so comforting, exploring someone else’s mind. He treated it as an adventure, going from room to room and finding those shiny little things in there. Here, under the blanket, Crowley’s taste for bitter things, how his nose wrinkled at the flavour of it and how his voice broke when he was trying to convince Aziraphale he enjoys it. When Aziraphale opened a drawer, he found Crowley’s fear of insects, how his limbs jumped, moved and bent themselves in every direction when he saw one. 

Each one was intriguing, each one deserved its shelf of attention. They filled Aziraphale’s dreams.

Crowley was fascinating, and Aziraphale couldn’t get enough of it. He was intoxicated, his blood saturated with red and black his eyes couldn’t stop following.

Red; that was it, _that’s the thing_ , red colour filling his vision at all times, red pouring from the windows and light-catching, dancing on Crowley’s hair. Red, a sunset, the seconds before stars come in and they held hands while one was crying.

Aziraphale was now playing with red in his hands. The tulip was making fun of his sighs as he replayed different scenes in his mind. Red was the colour of his face when he remembered the texture of Crowley’s skin against his lips. He still couldn’t believe he had dared to do that. Aziraphale’s mind was fixed on the vulnerable expression on Crowley’s face before Aziraphale walked away.

_A red tulip is a love confession, did you know that when you handed it to me? Are you giving me your heart or am I delusional?_

Red, just like passion; a red apple between his teeth and juice falling from Aziraphale’s chin while the traitorous bird in his chest sang. 

Aziraphale scribbled something and then crossed it out. Better to start again.

_Sunset is the colour of your soul and it catches fire in front of my eyes. Tell me I am not the rain that is killing you._

_I want to wake up to the silence of no one leaving._

No, again.

_Did Eurydice ever complain about chains? Was she guarded, eyes always on her while she chose to stay? Because she did. She made the choice. The colour red isn’t enough to keep someone alive._

Red like the blood at the bottom of the cliff, taking all hopes with it to a place Aziraphale couldn’t follow.

_I can’t contain the sunset within me, it’s too big, too much, too beautiful and unique for my eyes to comprehend. There is so much I don’t know about you, my darling, my life-boat made of clever hands and flashing smiles. I am just like the quiet, grey rain killing you. How can the drops of water hold a candle to the magnificence of the sun? I am the rain drowning in the sea and you’re the one teaching me to swim, keeping me from dissolving into the saltwater. And at the same time, I burn, but not with the calm power of the sun, I am just paper crumbling to the flames. I hope I didn’t leave a trace on your cheek. I hope I didn’t, I say, as the desire to mark you devours my soul and calls me a liar._

Aziraphale groaned and got up from his desk. He needed some company; his first instinct was to drown that need, just as he had always done until he reminded himself that it was fine. He could step out of the library, extend his hand and seek it. No one would criticise his human need for company. This situation, with Crowley there, was temporary; he could grab it before it was too late. Determined, Aziraphale left the library behind before his fears could catch him.

===

“Come on, Newt, don’t be like that. Share with the class what’s been going on.”

Newt blushed. “It’s going well. Why do you all have to torture me like this? I want to eat.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m sorry, it’s just so good to see you in high spirits. And Miss Anathema is such a fine lady.”

Tracy nodded in agreement. “Exactly! Spill it, Newt.”

Crowley walked in, and the confusion in his expression made Aziraphale chuckle again. He could not see Crowley’s eyes, because of those glasses, but Aziraphale could swear they were dancing around the room. His body looked like he was sustained by rope, his shoulders the embodiment of surprise.

Tracy got up immediately to serve another dish for Crowley. Crowley didn’t move, his lean figure standing there like a stick in the water.

“Aziraphale?”

“Hello, Crowley. Come and join us.”

Crowley sat down in front of Aziraphale like no human should be able to. Aziraphale studied his movements, his limbs sprawling like a huge spider — Aziraphale made a point of not telling Crowley that. He kept staring at Aziraphale and the rest, as if unsure of how to react. Crowley’s proximity now meant Aziraphale could smell him; Crowley’s usual forest-like scent filled his senses, distracting him greatly.

Tracy placed the dish in front of Crowley, but he didn’t even look at it; instead, he continued gazing at Aziraphale, his mouth opening and closing comically. Newt, who was sitting at Aziraphale’s left, repressed a laugh but failed, as Crowley finally reacted and shot him a glare that would have fried the poor valet on the spot if it weren’t for the glasses in between. 

Crowley turned around again to give Aziraphale his attention. Aziraphale didn’t utter a word, simply waiting for him to speak. Voice finally returned to Crowley’s tongue after a couple of moments filed with exchanged glances.

“Aziraphale? What are you doing here?”

“Having supper, isn’t that obvious?” Aziraphale continued cutting his steak, not even looking at Crowley.

“Supper?”

“Yes, supper. The food you eat before bed. Is there something wrong?”

Crowley frowned, his pout exposing the incredulity in his mind. Aziraphale could see from the corner of his eye how much Tracy was enjoying this exchange; she had a mischievous smile while she studied them both interact.

In fact, Crowley had every reason to be shocked by Aziraphale’s presence. He had not dared share his meals with anyone for some time, especially since Gabriel died. Tracy had been as surprised as Crowley when Aziraphale had appeared in the kitchen, prepared to eat with them; eating in the kitchens with the servants was a habit Aziraphale’s parents and Gabriel had never liked, but one of the tiny expectations Aziraphale had rebelled against. It had been mildly devastating to let go of it.

He had always enjoyed Newt and Tracy’s company far more than that of any of his family members. It was time he reconnected with them.

“But… why?”

Aziraphale glanced rapidly at Crowley and returned his eyes to his dish just as hastily. “I didn’t feel like dining alone today, is all.”

Tracy cleared her throat, and Aziraphale suddenly felt very self-conscious. Perhaps his intentions were far too obvious; his cheeks burned. He meaningfully glanced at Tracy, who had the decency to look away as if nothing had happened.

Thin, clever fingers entered his field of vision to grab a fork, making Aziraphale momentarily stop breathing. He couldn’t explain why he reacted in such an embarrassing way; they were simply fingers, no matter how attractive or fascinating they were when Crowley moved them around or made them swirl while he talked. Aziraphale focused on his dish again, but Crowley’s scent wasn’t helping.

“So, erm. Any news?” Crowley’s voice, low and insecure, reverberated in Aziraphale’s ears until it found the bird in his chest. 

“Newt isn’t, as usual, sharing his progress with Miss Anathema.” 

Crowley shook his head, all awkwardness gone instantly. “Oh, no, Newt, that can’t do. It’s Supper Time, so you know what that means.”

Tracy leaned over the table towards Newt, who instantly backed away. “Is it true you gave her flowers?”

Aziraphale perked his ears a bit at that, remembering the red tulip. “Oh, you did?” 

Tracy gasped. “Are you telling me Crowley didn’t tell you about it, my lord?”

Crowley stared at his meat as if expecting it to answer in his stead. “Hrmph.”

“Why not?”

Crowley didn’t answer. Aziraphale frowned, worried, the air suddenly heavy between them. Was something wrong? Did he do anything to offend Crowley?

_Please tell me I haven’t hurt you, don’t say this thing between us is already dead. Please tell me I am not imagining things, that we are still friends. Your fingers look so tense now, let me kiss them for you._

“Oh, I know. You don’t want Lord Aziraphale to know about _that,_ right?”

Crowley shut a glance at Newt who immediately shut up. 

“Oh my, what’s going on?” Tracy’s eyes shone with curiosity and a bit of concern.

Newt kept his mouth firmly shut. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, his concern twisting in his stomach. “Is something wrong?”

Crowley grimaced and he fumbled in his seat, anxiousness made flesh. “No, angel, I promise. It’s nothing.”

“Hestoleaflower.”

Newt spoke so quickly it was difficult to understand. “Pardon?”

There was a movement under the table and Newt yelped. Aziraphale shot a disappointed look at Crowley, knowing what had probably happened.

“Crowley, please, behave. Let the poor boy speak.”

Crowley mumbled but left Newt alone. Aziraphale, deciding not to address Crowley’s attitude further, nodded for Newt to continue. Newt swallowed and glanced at Crowley; noticing he was not even looking at the valet, Newt decided to continue.

“We went to town two days ago. Crowley saw I gave Miss Anathema some flowers and the next morning he asked me where I got them from. He went to town and came back with a flower, and I know for sure that Miss Petunia, from the flower shop, hates selling single flowers. I’m sure he stole it.”

Crowley whispered something that could potentially threaten Newt’s health and anatomy, but Aziraphale ignored it. Newt’s face paled a bit.

“Is that where you got the tulip from?” asked Aziraphale, directing his attention to Crowley again.

Crowley nodded, still not looking at Aziraphale in the eyes, like a rebellious kid being grounded by his parents. 

“What does that have to do with you not telling me about Newt’s flowers?”

Crowley mumbled again; Aziraphale didn’t make out a single word from it. “Excuse me?”

“I thought you would make the connection and ask me about it. You’re clever and you know I can’t lie to you, angel.”

Oh, that was so unfair. Crowley’s voice was a bit pleading, not pathetically so but enough to make Aziraphale’s chest-living bird tug with pity.

“Come on, now, don’t be so disappointed. You know I liked the flower very much.”

Crowley blushed, his hand momentarily going to his cheek, but then he dropped it on the table again. He had a tiny smile on his lips. 

“Yeah, I know.”

Tracy looked at Aziraphale in the eyes, her eyebrows arched. Aziraphale smugly grinned at her, knowing how it would wake her curiosity even further. It was entertaining to see her scheming about her next questions, but Aziraphale preferred for her to keep ignorant.

“So, Newt, when are you going to tell us how it went?”

Newt sighed, knowing he had no escape from this situation. 

“Come on! What did she say? Did she look happy, surprised…?” Aziraphale wriggled in his seat, not containing his excitement any longer. 

“She liked them.”

The table roared with joy. Crowley tapped Newt’s shoulder encouragingly, the valet giving him a shy but contented smile; Tracy clapped and winked at Aziraphale.

“What did she do with them?” asked Aziraphale.

“I think she put them in a vase in her room.”

“ _Oh là là_ , in her room? That’s next level. She’s interested _for sure_.” Crowley wriggled his eyebrows.

Aziraphale absentmindedly touched his chest, where he had tucked the tulip carefully in a pocket, wrapped with his tartan handkerchief. 

“What’s the next step of your plan?” asked Crowley.

Tracy laughed. “Plan? There’s no plan needed. He has to attack now, declare his love to the four winds. Take her to a nice place, go walk along the beach, you two alone; then you confess.”

“Con-confess? Isn’t it too soon?”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale sighed, “you have been pursuing Miss Anathema for months. She’s not unintelligent, I am sure she must sense something already. I agree with Tracy, it’s time for honesty now.”

Newt slowly nodded, considering Aziraphale’s words. 

“Yup. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Tempt her with another gift so she agrees to go walk with you,” added Crowley.

Aziraphale tutted. “Why wouldn’t she go with Newt? There’s no need for tempting.”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s how these things go, right? You have to plan carefully, have cards up your sleeve…”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You have such poor romantic taste. Where are the emotions in that? Gifts and plans are good, don’t get me wrong; but what about the big declarations of love? The bearing of one’s heart?”

Crowley crossed his arms on his chest, leaning backwards, the chair dangerously creaking. “And you’re such a romantic it’s like you’re in a fairy tale.”

Aziraphale blushed. “It’s not my fault you lack a total sense of romance.”

Crowley gasped, offended, making the chair drop back into place with a loud thud. “How _dare_ you say that! I’m romantic!”

“Of course, whatever you say.”

Tracy laughed. “Come on, I’m sure both of you are very romantic. Let’s finish supper before it gets too cold.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley disapprovingly, while the latter shot him a condescending smile. Aziraphale focused on his dish again, determined to enjoy it. With his fork, he drenched a bit of meat with sauce, to then put it in his mouth. The dark, dense sauce combined perfectly with the meat; it had a touch of sweetness in it that made his toes curl. He moaned in pleasure, his attention momentarily wavered at the sudden intense look on Crowley’s face.

He paid no attention to it and simply continued eating. 

Eventually, he finished eating and put his fork on the plate. 

“That was excellent, my dear Tracy. Especially the sauce. Is it a new recipe?”

Tracy nodded. “We could prepare it together one day if you’d like, my lord.”

Aziraphale smiled. “It would be wonderful.”

He then noticed that Crowley had barely touched his plate. He frowned; was Crowley a picky eater? Perhaps that was the reason behind his lean figure. 

“Are you going to eat that?”

Crowley stared at him for a moment, giving no indication that he had heard Aziraphale. Under Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley started to slowly come back to reality, as if waking from a deep slumber. He straightened his neck and parted his lips, his long fingers tapping twice on the table as they remembered themselves again and, finally, Crowley followed the direction Aziraphale’s finger was pointing to. 

“Ah, erm, not really, no.”

“Is something wrong?”

Aziraphale ignored the critical voice in his head telling him he was constantly worrying, probably being too attentive and overbearing.

_This is how you love; flapping around his head and making sure he is there still, that he won’t evaporate from between your fingers. How ironic, as you are the one who is going to walk away from this._

“No, I’m fine, I just — ngk. Not really hungry. You can have it if you want.”

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Yeah, yeah, just take it.”

Crowley pushed his plate towards Aziraphale, who dug in without a second thought. Crowley scratched his throat, leaning towards Aziraphale while he finished the dish.

When they got up to clean the table, Aziraphale saw Newt approaching Crowley to whisper something in his ear. Aziraphale got close to them, inconspicuous, his curiosity getting a hold on him. 

“ — following the book right?” Aziraphale could hear Newt say.

Crowley made a non-committal noise and ignored the valet, clearly not desiring to pursue the conversation further. Aziraphale looked elsewhere and, after wishing good night to everyone, headed towards his library once more. He was deeply interested in whatever Newt meant — it involved a book, and from what Aziraphale had gathered up until now, Crowley was not a reader. Perhaps he had picked a book in Anathema’s bookshop, but then, why not tell Aziraphale?

_Secrets aren’t meant to be told, are they? They rot in one’s throats and poison your words until breathing is no longer possible. Watch it from afar, don’t get too close, you are not meant to be a part of this._

Aziraphale quietly shut the door of his library after entering, hoping Crowley would open it. Hoping he would’ve followed Aziraphale there, that they would have one of those wonderful nights together drinking wine and talking about nothing. Aziraphale wished he was brave enough to ask directly, propose it to Crowley, instead of just praying for it silently.

Crowley never came.

===

A gentle breeze moved Aziraphale’s cape while he walked. That day, the sky promised a storm, but the rain was being shy and hadn’t yet started to pour. As a consequence, the air was uncomfortably humid and made Aziraphale’s clothes stick to his skin; he ached to at least take the cape off.

Crowley was walking alongside him, those hips swaying from one way to the other in their usual manner. He had his long, red hair free for the first time, and the way those curly locks cascaded on his shoulders kept distracting Aziraphale from their conversation. Crowley was enthusiastically telling him about the time he had visited Paris and stayed there for some months; his hands gesticulated, long fingers playing with the wind as he described some crêpes Aziraphale _needed_ to try. 

_There is no sweetness like the joy your company brings me_.

Aziraphale didn’t pay attention to his traitorous mind. The sky sounded, complaining, not yet able to free itself and let all the water fall on them. Aziraphale wondered about it, about water keeping itself in one place, bottling for the longest time, without anything to push it over the edge. Would it come down like waves, a tsunami on their heads, the laughing lightning over their heads? Or would it be with the gentleness of a lover’s kiss? 

Judging by the roar of the bird caged in Aziraphale’s heart, thundering next to the flower in his pocket, it was surely going to be chaos. 

Aziraphale’s feet moved, one after the other, the sandy ground soon to be transformed into mud sticking to his shoes. They were promenading by the cliffs, with enough distance for it not to be dangerous. 

Aziraphale delighted himself with the whisper of _l’appel du vide_ telling him to jump; he was strong and wise enough as not to let himself take the decisive step. And why would he? He had plenty of reasons to live. Many of them were responsibilities, and the joy of living would be replaced with the achievement of his duties for the rest of his life. Marrying, having children, taking care of the fencing school. He had to keep control of himself for only a mere number of weeks. It had to be easy. He didn’t have any possibility of being with Crowley either way. Aziraphale had to live and let destiny follow its course.

He didn’t even know the man sufficiently. Could he trust him? It didn’t matter what his gut said, what the bird sang about in the silent moments of the night, or how this ridiculous man could make him smile so many times a day his face hurt, unused to joy. 

A black shadow crossed their paths, stopping his self-repudiating thoughts. 

“Is that a bug?” said Crowley with his voice shaking. 

It was too long for it to be a bug. Aziraphale, with a pleased smile on his face, took the snake into his arms. At once, the animal happily wrapped itself around his arm and put his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. It wasn’t a particularly big snake, but it was magnificent, with black scales like night and a red belly.

Crowley didn’t seem so sure about it.

“Isn’t that dangerous, angel?”

Aziraphale pet the snake’s shiny back with his fingers. “How could it be dangerous? Look how well she’s behaving. Look at you. What a wonderful, glorious creature you are.” Aziraphale whispered to the snake.

Crowley’s ears turned red, camouflaging beneath his hair. “It better not bite you.”

Aziraphale shot a glance at Crowley. “This snake deserves more trust, Crowley. She isn’t going to bite me. Look at how adorable she is, it’s impossible she’s dangerous.”

Aziraphale slightly lifted his arm, bringing the snake closer to Crowley, who stared at the snake. The reptile turned its head towards Crowley, sticking its tongue out to smell him. Aziraphale agreed with it; Crowley did smell good.

Crowley grinned. “These animals _are_ dark and dangerous. I like them. But _please,_ angel, be careful.”

“Oh yes, so dark and mysterious, kind of like the way you want to be perceived, right, dear?”

Crowley frowned. “Oi. I _am_ all those things.”

Aziraphale began walking again, still caressing the snake’s lovely back. The animal stayed still, enjoying the pets.

“Of course. How foolish of me to pretend otherwise. Isn’t it, my lovely dear?” Aziraphale said, giving his attention back to his new friend. 

Crowley shot a poisonous stare at the snake, which didn’t go unnoticed by Aziraphale. Did Crowley hate snakes as much as he was disgusted by insects? It didn’t strike Aziraphale as right, as the snake reminded him of Crowley so much. It was even wearing the same colours. Perhaps lookalikes didn’t like each other.

After a while, the snake began to feel restless against his arm, so Aziraphale stopped by a bush and left her there. He hoped he could see her again; it had been a long time since Aziraphale had encountered such a nice and well-behaved snake. Crowley waited for him, his hands on his hips.

“What is it with you being so angelic? I feel like I’m repeating myself, but you always like to prove I’m right.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “All creatures, great and small, deserve love and respect. Even the dangerous ones.”

Crowley laughed. “You just said it wasn’t dangerous.”

Aziraphale frowned at him, which only made Crowley laugh harder. 

“Oh, shush.”

When they came back to the house, Newt was waiting for them there, an anxious look on his pale face. That was unusual; normally he would be attending his duties. 

“Newt? Are you alright?”

Newt gave him a letter. “This is for you, my lord.”

Aziraphale frowned, a bit perplexed. He was certainly not waiting for any correspondence, but his mind went straight to his mother — there could be news about the state of Aziraphale’s aunt. Aziraphale, worried and with the letter in his hands, climbed the stairs and onto the library, hastily searching for his envelope opener. He could sense Crowley’s presence behind him while he opened the letter.

Aziraphale read the first words and flinched.

“Bad news?” asked Crowley.

Aziraphale didn’t answer as he continued reading the letter. The paper crumbled under the pressure of his fingers. 

This couldn’t be happening. Not now, or ever. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. 

_Remember your chains. You may look like an angel in Crowley’s opinion, but you are certainly not flying away like one. There is no escape from this, and the world doesn’t stop turning just because you have a few weeks of bliss._

“Who is it, angel? Did something happen?”

Aziraphale turned around, painfully aware of the noise of the bird in his chest. 

“My cousin, Michael. She’s coming for a visit.”

Outside, the sky surrendered and the storm raged in, the noise of the rain against the old house the only thing that could be heard.

===

Aziraphale was panicking.

The fear was eating his insides, slowly, savouring each bite, as he walked around the library at an unsteady pace. A night had passed since he had received the letter and sent Crowley to his room, needing to think.

He had not slept.

It was impossible to. A very familiar tiredness crept behind his eyes, but it was not the first time he pulled a _nuit blanche._ He could sense the shadows underneath his eyes, and the little sparks at the edge of his vision were extremely annoying.

Aziraphale didn’t even know why he hadn’t tried to sleep. What was he hoping to accomplish with it? No matter how many hours he spent worrying, Michael was going to come to visit. There was no way out of it.

_Pale ginger hair, not like the mane you keep searching for, but one that plagues your nightmares. A horrendous smile of displeasure, her self-secure steps towards you while you cry and fall to the ground, those feet stepping on your hand and a violet laugh ringing in your ears. She is coming._

Aziraphale sighed and sat down on his couch, in front of a neglected fire. The morning light was starting to pour from the window, all rain from the night before quickly forgotten. The sky was so enviable; some hours passed and the storm was fast gone, letting the sun step in. He wished he could do such a thing, and erase all his anxiousness with a quick coming of wind, clearing his soul for once.

Aziraphale craved to feel some of that air on his face, to breathe again. He got up once again and walked towards his window, opening it hastily and knocking some books over. Swearing, he bent over and picked them up. He was understandably too tired to mind his surroundings, but his books didn’t have to pay for it. 

He picked one of the books, a cooking one ( _The Arts and Flavours of a well-prepared Bread)_ and noticed a paper beneath it. Aziraphale frowned; he was sure there hadn’t been any papers hiding in this particular pile of books. 

The paper was thick, not like the ones he used, and it was a bit crumpled on the edges. Aziraphale deposited the books on the ground once more to pick the paper up and inspect it closely. He turned it around in his hands and Aziraphale found himself staring back at him.

It was a drawing. A study, to be precise. Aziraphale was puzzled, the bird coming alive in his chest by the rush of blood that pumped through his veins.

He was there, on the paper, with his usual waistcoat and shirt, in a defensive position with a short sword in his hand. There was a smile starting to blossom on his face, and his short hair was sticking on his forehead because of the sweating. His face and upper part of his body were detailed, while the rest had been left unfinished. Around this drawing were other sketches; Aziraphale inspected them, gently tracing them with a finger.

They were all of him. His hands, his ring which he absentmindedly started playing with, his profile, even one of his eyes. It was all him.

_Here you are as you look from a stranger’s point of view. Is it truly you? You are not this beautiful, this elegant, as it lacks the shadows of your own mind._

It was true; he had been portrayed in a way which made the bird sing strangely. He was poised, proud, with a beautiful sparkle in his eyes; his hands looked strong but delicate. Aziraphale stared at his own hands, unable to find the same emotions in them as they did in the drawing. They had to be his, judging by the ring; but it was a distant, cold recognition in Aziraphale’s mind. The drawings represented him more alive than he felt when staring at his own hands as if he was looking at them through a dirty window.

However, there was no signature, nothing to recognize the artist. The paper had surely not been there before; Aziraphale would have remembered. He thought about the painter who had come some time ago, but it was impossible this was his work; the details were too delicate, too well-done for it. That painter’s work had all been graceless, lacking spirit and life. This was utterly different.

Aziraphale raised his head towards the window. Had it come flying in when he opened it? He got up from where he had been kneeling and perched himself over the window, the frame uncomfortably stabbing him in the stomach.

Aziraphale could see the garden from there. The flowers and tree leaves moved under the force of the wind; Aziraphale blinked as his hair got into his eyes.

There was no one. 

“Hello?” he asked, tentatively.

Only the wind answered. Still grasping the paper in his hands, Aziraphale took a decision. He walked out of the library, grabbed his cape and stepped outside to the force of the elements.

Days like these were always a wonder to see in the Isle of Libra. The sun was shining down on Aziraphale, making him blink, while the wind pushed on him like a ghost trying to redirect him to his destiny. The lack of sleep made Aziraphale’s mind fuzzy as if he was walking through a sea of fog coming from a dream. His fingers, cold in spite of the gentle sun, grasped tightly on the drawing, but not enough as to damage it.

Aziraphale walked around the house towards the garden as the mud under his feet uncomfortably stuck to his shoes. The wind kept pushing him, forward and forward, with the cape flowing towards the same direction. The paper in his hands was menacing to fly away if he didn’t pay attention to holding it.

In the distance, he saw a dark shadow, standing against the rising sun. Aziraphale was familiar with that shadow, as it had become impossibly dear to him in a matter of a few weeks.

The bird in his chest sang louder.

He approached the shadow, hesitant. “Crowley?”

Crowley was kneeling on the ground, surrounded by plants shaking from the wind. Aziraphale wondered if he had interrupted Crowley giving a lesson to the flowers again, but he was not yelling this time. Crowley moved around, his back on Aziraphale, and it appeared as if he was looking for something amongst the plants. 

_Red coming from green; a flower or heart’s obsession?_

Crowley, be it because of his distraction or the roaring of the wind, didn’t hear him. Aziraphale stepped in, careful not to walk over any flower, even though he could see some of them had already succumbed under _someone’s_ feet.

Aziraphale leaned over Crowley, raising his hand towards his slender shoulder. Suddenly, something caught Aziraphale’s eyes and his hand froze in place.

Crowley was holding a sketchbook. It was open, and the pages were dancing around, trying to come out free from it as the wind ruffled them. Despite their movement, Aziraphale could perfectly see what was plastered on them.

Drawings, sketchings, studies. Of him. Just like the paper he was holding.

“You…”

Crowley heard him this time, and he jumped in place, startled; he turned around to find Aziraphale staring at him, with his eyes wide. 

“Aziraphale? What are you doing here?”

Crowley covered his sketchbook with one hand, trying to hide it, but it was too late.

“What is that?”

Crowley looked in the direction Aziraphale was pointing to as if he had not noticed the sketchbook until now. His hand flapped around, taking importance off the subject.

“Oh, this is, hum. Just some silly drawings of flowers.”

“Flowers, you say? Like this one?” Aziraphale held the paper in front of Crowley’s perplexed face.

All colour disappeared from Crowley’s cheeks. 

“I... um. Where…? Agh. I can explain it.”

Crowley started to get up, the wind making him swing around like reed. Aziraphale stepped away, shaking his head in confusion.

“Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

Crowley tried to touch his arm, but Aziraphale slapped it away, startling them both. He brought his hand to his chest, guilty for what he had just done, but unable to say anything. His sleep-deprived mind was swirling around, trying to fit the pieces together.

“Angel, I…”

“No, don’t. Please, don’t.” Aziraphale’s voice broke. “I trusted you, Crowley, and you didn’t even tell me the truth. Did my mother ask you to do this? Is that it?”

Crowley opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before answering. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “I should have imagined. This… _thing_ between us, this fraternizing, was false from the start.”

“ _Fraternizing?”_

“However you wish to name it. How silly I was.” Aziraphale laughed, his mouth dry.

“Aziraphale, please...”

Tears began gathering in Aziraphale’s eyes. He was so stupid, so gullible. His family, once more, had been pulling the strings of his own life. Aziraphale had been so blind, so eager to have a friend he had jumped into the occasion without reasoning. 

He threw the paper at Crowley, who tried to grab it in midair, but the wind took it far away from them, pathetically swirling around. Aziraphale was too angry to reason, but felt a pang of guilt immediately, as the drawings were now lost.

Crowley’s lips were pointing down, his whole body the expression of sadness, but it wasn’t fooling Aziraphale anymore. Aziraphale’s heart was now closed, loneliness filling it in a painfully familiar way. 

Aziraphale may have been sleepless, may have been judging the situation poorly, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. He was aware of his own condition, but this was the fact; Crowley wasn’t who he had said he was. He had been hiding the truth all this time, working with his mother behind his back to get close to Aziraphale and paint him so he could sell his life away. 

Aziraphale shook his head once more. He turned around, the wind trying to push him, to make him walk back to Crowley like his soul was trying to. He didn’t listen to them, and kept walking, blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay.

In his chest, the bird was deadly silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a modification from Soleil Soleil by Pomme.


	10. The enormity of my desire disgusts me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: blood

Anthony J. Crowley was a stupid man.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting. As an artist, he knew damn well it was impossible to force inspiration if it refused to come for some time. He should have waited, patiently, done other things as he had been already; spend time with Aziraphale, find new ways to impress him and earn his favour, or get better at fencing somehow. He could have even tended the garden, subjecting those badly behaved flowers to a bit of discipline, as it was apparent they had never experienced any.

Alas, no. Crowley had decided to go outside, with windy weather threatening to tear the house away, to try and get inspired again. Sketch a bit, mull over the portrait and find ways to finish it. There was something in it which screamed incomplete to him, and it hadn’t been helping his uninspired state.

Unsurprisingly, the drawings were sent flying, and be it destiny or simply bad luck, one of them had been found by Aziraphale.

Crowley groaned and continued his pacing around the room. His heart was constricting his chest painfully, the weight of what he had done too much to bear. His mind couldn’t help but replay, again and again, Aziraphale’s wretched face upon seeing his sketchbook. 

Crowley had never seen him like that. It had been beautiful, in the same way a broken vase catching light was — unexpectedly broken, the sound of it hitting the surface still ghosting in the air, and no matter how Crowley tried to rearrange the pieces, he just managed to make it worse, cutting himself and letting drops of blood sully the scene.

Aziraphale’s stormy eyes, the wind making his hair point in every direction, his cape flowing behind him and sticking to his body. Crowley’s mind couldn’t help it but scream _yes, push him towards me, into my arms,_ as if he could just hug the treason away, kiss the broken smile, hold into him like he was drowning and Aziraphale was the only thing keeping him alive.

Because he was, in a way. Crowley could not imagine his life without him, without Aziraphale there giggling and showing those adorable dimples, beaming at him and touching him lightly. Who would bicker with him in the same way? _No one,_ said his heart. 

It had all been because of something so stupid as the portrait. Crowley despised it, now, and had covered it with a blanket to avoid looking at it, even if the curtains were hiding that part of his room. Just being in the presence of it was enough to make him grind his teeth. 

He understood the reasoning behind burning the portrait of his predecessor.

Crowley had been pacing around his room for a couple of hours now. He didn’t know what to do with himself, with his anxious hands and the pain in the bottom of his stomach. He had to do something, _anything_ , to make Aziraphale feel better. He had arranged his belongings, expecting to be cast out at any minute now; every time the floor of the hall creaked, he imagined Newt or Tracy appearing and opening his door and informing him he had to go. Crowley’s ears perked up at the smallest of noises.

It never happened. The house was as mortally silent as if Crowley was a ghost haunting it, the memories of the pain he had inflicted retaining him in the mortal realm.

Crowley had followed Aziraphale into the house two minutes later when the dread had kicked in. He could still feel his neck burning from where the sun had hit him for too long, as he stood there, unmoving, letting the wind torture him. Aziraphale was already gone; only a confused Tracy was there to greet him by the entrance. 

“What happened?”

“He knows.”

Tracy had flinched, taking a moment to answer.

“Oh, dear.”

“Indeed.”

And that had been it. Tracy went to the library, to try and talk with Aziraphale but, judging by the fact that Aziraphale hadn’t been seen all day, it had been for nothing. It had all led to Crowley alone in his room, his thoughts eating away at his brain like acid.

Aziraphale’s eyes had been full of tears, watering down the deep hazel blue of them. He had been broken by Crowley’s hands, shown exactly what he had been most afraid of; to be controlled by his family no matter what he did, by everyone who approached him. Aziraphale was already destined to marry his freedom away, and now, because of Crowley, his last weeks before it happened had made everything worse. He was probably hiding in his library, as he had done for so many years; who knew when he would emerge again. With a shiver, Crowley realized he could conceivably not see Aziraphale again until his departure. 

He sat down on the bed and took his glasses off, sending them flying to the couch, so he could rub his eyes with his hands. All kinds of emotions bubbled inside of him — exhaustion, sadness, anger, impotence. And love. 

Crowley loved Aziraphale.

It was an obvious conclusion to reach, perhaps, but it now dawned on him like a bag full of bricks. He loved Aziraphale. _Crowley was in love with him._

What to do with these emotions? They had no place to go, nowhere to land and call a place home. They could only lie down and die. It was a cruel turn of fate to realise it now when he had just lost Aziraphale’s trust probably forever.

The worst part was that his mind was so used to memorising and studying Aziraphale’s every shift of expression that it was now filled with them, a museum for his pain to visit. Again and again, he relived all their days together, from different angles and lights, finding new shadows to hide his shame in.

Crowley let himself fall on the bed, his legs hanging from it, his arms extended by his sides, letting his bones pop. His mind kept playing images of Aziraphale: those kind eyes, the way they wrinkled when Aziraphale found something amusing, how his tongue licked his lips when he ate or conversed, those strong but delicate hands holding swords, books, glasses of wine, _Crowley’s hand_. And moans. Oh, the moaning, Aziraphale’s eyes flickering with pleasure, his teeth sinking deep in the pastries, licking his fingers free of cream. The way Aziraphale had looked at him, then, when he had licked his own finger, the way he glanced at him as if he was another pastry he couldn’t wait to taste. Crowley wondered, for a second, if his mind was embellishing the memory, but it didn’t matter. 

He was half-hard now. 

Crowley groaned, putting his arm over his eyes, trying to focus on the bright spots dancing in front of his eyes. He had just back-stabbed Aziraphale, it was no time to let his lust take a hold of him; he had done such a great job resisting its incessant pull until now. 

His mind had other plans for him. Crowley’s body kept reacting, as images of Aziraphale returned to him again and again. He went further, impossible to stop himself, all the pent-up feelings finally breaching the surface and coming to life in waves. Like a man lost in the desert finding an oasis, he put his head in the water and prayed not to drown in it while he drank, drank, and drank.

Aziraphale had a _way_ of fencing, his body full of grace as he moved, calculating every shift of his muscles to make precise movements. Crowley marvelled himself again at the memory of their first day, how Aziraphale had taken away Crowley’s sword effortlessly; every drop of blood in his body went south, Aziraphale’s irresistible competence turning him on like a snap of his fingers. 

Crowley groaned, the sound getting trapped in his throat. He turned around, burying his face in the mattress, and grabbed the blanket with his hands. In a moment of annoyance, he untied his hair, letting the ribbon fall on the floor. His feet tried to ground himself on the bed, and his whole body was in tension, resisting until the end the pool of want building inside of him. 

Crowley’s control slipped for an instant as his hips jerked forward, seeking any sort of friction, eliciting another groan from his lips. His fingers ached deliciously from grasping the blanket. 

Aziraphale’s voice, laughing and reprimanding him, teaching him how to move, his fingers lost in Crowley’s hair that one fateful night — Crowley recreated the sensation now, aching to feel Aziraphale’s body pressed against him, hear him praising him and kissing his back. Kissing made his mind jump to the one Aziraphale had planted on Crowley’s cheek, with that angelic scent of his lingering in the air as he walked away. He could now feel dampness in his pants as he continued to move his hips against the mattress, the sensation making him hiss. 

The wet sensation reminded him of the cold seawater where they had been swimming and _oh, fuck_ — Aziraphale’s plump body under the sun, a coquettish expression on his face while Crowley undressed, how he had watched and studied him. The way Aziraphale’s thighs moved with every step he took; the shape of his arse under the thin, semi-transparent underwear and, with that image, Crowley came, whispering _angel_ over and over.

The pleasure melted every muscle of his body, relaxing suddenly against the bed while he gasped for air.

Relief lasted for a minute, then guilt returned. Now he was fucking the bed while he thought of his friend? If they were still to be considered friends. Aziraphale’s voice saying _fraternizing_ came to his mind. 

Crowley was pathetic, lusting and yearning for someone who had been so obviously pained by his actions. 

He ended up dozing off, exhausted as he was, and not only emotionally. He moved around, and the obvious discomfort between his legs awoke him again. It was unavoidable to do something about it.

After cleaning himself up and changing clothes, Crowley sat down on his bed again, determined to do _something._ He had distracted himself enough; he couldn’t let this situation slide. Aziraphale deserved better.

However, it probably wasn’t a good idea to try to talk to Aziraphale. He probably needed some space to calm down before having a serious conversation, to avoid a similar reaction to when Crowley had tried to talk to him the moment everything was discovered. Crowley nodded — that seemed perfectly plausible and mature. He would wait. In the meantime, Crowley could think and plan what he was going to say, and how to say it. Of course, Crowley would tell nothing but the truth; but he was deeply scared of Aziraphale deciding not to speak to him anymore. It was Aziraphale’s decision, and Crowley would respect it either way, but it couldn’t hurt to try and do it nicely. Just to avoid giving Aziraphale more pain, at least. 

Fear clenched in Crowley’s gut. He had majorly fucked up everything, hadn’t he? Perhaps, with a bit of luck, Aziraphale would accept him again, or that was what the optimistic side of him wanted to believe. Crowley realized all of it meant hiding his feelings for Aziraphale, at least for now. He knew hiding more things may not be what Aziraphale needed right now, but what he _certainly_ did not need was for his dubious friend to declare his undying love to him. It would only mess up with his head even further. Crowley remembered Aziraphale’s passion while talking about big declarations of love, two nights ago. Perhaps one day he could make one.

Crowley wondered when it had all started. Possibly, the first time he had made Aziraphale laugh, or when the lord had talked to him while floating in the starry sea and held his hand, or perhaps when Aziraphale had chugged down his wine to cheer Crowley up, or when he confessed giving away his sword to help Tracy. Or it had all started when Aziraphale had shown kindness to a perfect stranger and shielded him from the rain, the day they met? Either way, Crowley’s heart was not his anymore.

Crowley, in a spurt of inspiration, took The Book in his hands from the nightstand; there could be a chapter about the proper ways of mending broken friendships. Skipping some pages, Crowley grew more and more frustrated. The old book smell was making him think of Aziraphale, which was making things worse. With a groan, he sent the book flying to the mattress. The book bounced and opened to a random page and, ever so curious, Crowley read its first line. 

_“When the whirl wynd whirls, reach oute one to another.”_

Crowley had never heard about books that could spur even more guilty emotions. Yes, there had been wind when everything went down like a lead balloon, but they had utterly failed in reaching out to one another. He had tried to reach out to Aziraphale only to have his hand slapped. It hurt. It hurt so damn much.

He glanced at the nightstand and, opening the only drawer it had, he found the fencing book Aziraphale had lent him, what seemed like an eternity ago. Taking it in his hands like a precious treasure, the familiar texture of the cover filling his hands as he leaned in to smell it. It was kind of embarrassing, but he found what he was looking for — faint traces of Aziraphale’s cologne. Sunshine, books, wine, and touches of sweetness. He closed his eyes, luxuriating in it, letting his body float for a bit while he breathed.

How could someone smell of sunshine? It was fascinating, but there it was, the light in it filling Crowley’s bloodstream. It was so undeniably _Aziraphale,_ like gold sparkles behind his eyelids _;_ he was just like the sunrise, after all. The way the sun broke the darkness, how the gold and white replaced the purple and voiceless blue. It was Aziraphale smiling, the light in his eyes, like the slow fire in his soul. His presence in Crowley’s life had the same effect — a way of chasing the darkness away, of helping him to live in the present. Crowley was but traces of the night before, letting Aziraphale step in and fill him with determined sunlight. 

What a pretentious metaphor. Crowley blushed and put the book back, embarrassed and partially afraid Aziraphale’s scent would get erased by Crowley’s own. Pathetic.

Glancing at the window, he realized night had fallen. Crowley decided that, indeed, the day needed to finally be over. With a sigh, he fell to the bed again. He didn’t even bother to get under the blanket, or take off his clothes. He couldn’t wait to close his eyes and momentarily escape his emotions.

Rest is an illusion that doesn’t find itself in the realm of dreams. As an affirmation of this, only nightmares visited Crowley — old ones, dreams that had plagued his rest for some nights already. Fear, on the contrary, was never familiar to one’s heart; no matter how many times it comes back, it never tastes the same. 

Aziraphale, burning and turning to ashes in his hands, while flames licked him in the face. No water to be found, no cure, no happy ending. Just pain and death while screams tore his throat apart.

===

Days passed. Crowley had decided, at some point, to visit the town regularly. He went to the pub sometimes on his visits, and talked to the man with the weird hairstyle who he had met that first time; his name was Eric, and he was a regular there. Crowley sometimes met Hastur too, who was, unsurprisingly, kind of a prat no matter the day. Noticing Crowley’s regular visits, he had growled a “Told you so.” Not precisely the easiest person to talk to, but Crowley was becoming as fond of him as anyone could be of someone like Hastur.

Crowley didn’t interact much with other people, like the other inhabitants of the town had a habit of avoiding him after word got around that he worked with the Angelos. Some, curious, asked him about the rumours and expected answers. Crowley never paid them much attention.

He regularly visited Anathema, passing by the flower shop in the way. Miss Petunia, the shop’s owner, was a very sweet lady who had not hesitated to pull his ears when she had found out about the stolen flower. She reminded Crowley of Tracy, somehow, like a grandmotherly version of her.

Crowley hadn’t been able to paint. Sometimes he half-heartedly sketched. He had taken on the task of painting the town and landscape, as he had thought of doing previously, but it was a slow work in progress. The activity served more as an escape than anything else, occupying his nervous hands. Most of the time it only served to sunburn his face, but the instant of oblivion painting gave him was worth it.

They were now in the middle of his fourth week on the Isle. His portrait urgently needed to go through _some_ progress, but Crowley couldn’t even bear to look at it, not even as time passed. It lay, silent, under the blanket haunting his room.

He had not seen Aziraphale since their fight.

Crowley talked to Tracy and Newt constantly, who were understandably worried. The only contact between Aziraphale and the rest of the world was the food Tracy left in front of his door every day, and the books Newt brought with him. Crowley was relieved to know Aziraphale still ate, judging by the empty plates Tracy found waiting in the hall in the morning. 

Crowley was deep in despair. Every passing day was torture, the worry in his soul consuming him. Was Aziraphale truly alright inside the library? What if something had happened there? Did Aziraphale sleep properly?

Would he ever talk to Crowley again?

Every day was the same. Waking up, eating something, chatting to Tracy and Newt without the same spirit as before, losing time around town until it was time to sleep and meet his nightmares. He needed to talk to Aziraphale.

And he had tried. Once.

One morning, just before the sun woke up from its slumber, Crowley had tried. After emerging from a particularly frightening nightmare, he had felt the indisputable certainty that Aziraphale was in danger. Before his mind could remind himself of reality, he had run to the library, tripping over his feet along the hall. There, he called for Aziraphale, knocked on the door, just wanting to hear his voice once. At some point, he fully awakened but it was no matter; the desire to hear Aziraphalr’s voice was too real. 

Aziraphale had said nothing that night. Crowley fell asleep at the doorstep, tears drying on his face until Tracy woke him up. They had found an empty plate by the door, meaning that Aziraphale had opened the door when Crowley had been asleep and had not woken him up. That fact hurt him even more than anything that had happened until now, until they spotted a note hidden beneath the plate. The small paper was crumbled with its words crossed out until only _sorry_ could be read. 

Crowley had pocketed it and refused to look at it again. 

What he did contemplate was the tulip’s petal, the one he had given Aziraphale. He always wore it in his breast pocket, letting it accompany his lonely heart.

===

Those pathetic days were cruelly interrupted by Michael’s visit.

In all honesty, Crowley had forgotten about it completely, his thoughts only filled with Aziraphale. 

It had been a boring morning, much like the others. Crowley had been deciding what to do with himself; continue sleeping and feeling pathetic, or go to town. He had wondered about going swimming, but there were too many memories attached to the shore. 

Crowley heard some voices in the front door, distracting him. He recognized Tracy’s voice and decided to go check; Crowley might not be particularly strong, but he was damned if he was going to let someone put a finger on her.

When he reached the stairs, he saw Michael. Pale, surprisingly short ginger hair, curling at the top. She had a strict air to her and was wearing manly clothes, fitting her better than any other man Crowley had seen. The dove-grey suit, tailored to fit her perfectly, gave her an imposing figure. She was taking her gloves off while she spoke, with a face which promised trouble.

“Let me go through. I must speak to my cousin at once.”

Tracy’s face was red and she was trying to close the door on the woman, unsuccessfully.

“My lord is in no disposition to receive visitors. Please come back another day, or if you have a message, I’ll -”

The woman opened the door with her hand, nearly sending Tracy flying with the brutality of the gesture. Crowley quickly descended the stairs and helped Tracy regain her balance, shooting a mean glance at the woman.

“I’m Michael Andrews. I sent a letter here some days ago. I would have expected a better reception than this. I repeat; where is my cousin?”

Miss Andrews, finally noticing Crowley, looked at him up and down, as if he was a worm and she was trying to decide if he was worthy of being stepped by her. Crowley repressed the sudden urge to show her his teeth.

“Didn’t you hear? He’s not available. Come another day,” he barked.

Miss Andrews arched an eyebrow. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“Anthony J. Crowley.”

Crowley didn’t want to give more details, but Miss Andrews’s face brightened with sudden understanding.

“Ah, the painter! Yes, Lady Angelo has mentioned you. I was expecting… something else, to be frank.”

Crowley hated her already.

She had a malicious air to her, perfectly in opposition to Aziraphale’s general aura of kindness. She was calm as she spoke, but with an underlying tone of violence in it. Her shoulders were perfectly straight, her pose stable — she was ready to attack at any given moment. The most displeasing part of her was the constant expression of disdain on her lips.

“I suspect my _dear_ cousin is hiding in his library, again, like the coward he is. I suppose I’ll have to go fetch him myself.”

And, without an invitation, she stepped inside, walked towards the stairs as if she owned the house, and put a hand on the bannister.

“Don’t take a step further.”

Aziraphale’s voice fell on them, freezing everyone in place. Crowley looked up, his heart beating like it hadn’t done in days; and saw him, dressed in white, beautiful, breathtaking. His face was serious, his eyebrows drawn into a frown at the scene before him. His hair was dishevelled and he had shadows under his eyes — incrementing Crowley’s worry — but he was _there,_ he was talking to them, and for a moment, Crowley forgot about everyone else. It required an amazing amount of will-power not to climb the stairs and jump into his arms. Part of him blessed Miss Andrews’s presence there, no matter how hateful she was.

“This is between you and me, Michael. Don’t get them involved. Let’s talk privately.”

The way Aziraphale talked was, somehow, unnatural, noticed Crowley with a frown. He wasn’t the kind man Crowley knew so well; his personality was toned down, with only the aristocratic veneer observable. His face and voice were deeply serious, and the faint smile he directed to Miss Andrews was painfully fake. 

He didn’t even glance at Crowley. Not even once.

Lord Angelo descended the stairs and, with a movement of his hand, invited Miss Andrews outside again. When the door closed behind them, Crowley turned around to face Tracy.

“Where are they going?”

Tracy straightened her dress, her face still red with fury. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to go to the _salle_.”

Crowley frowned. “Really? Do you think they’re going to fence?”

Tracy shrugged, with a mirror expression of Crowley’s worry on her face. “My lord told me once that it was the only way to talk to his family.”

“Do they all fence?”

Tracy nodded. “My lord’s father accepted everyone in his school, including women. All of my lord’s family were trained there.”

Crowley didn’t need to hear more. He stepped outside and followed them.

The _salle_ had its doors closed, unsurprisingly. Crowley was expecting it, so he walked over to the windows, kneeling under one. The posture wasn’t the most comfortable one, but he would be able to bear with it for a while. He hoped no one would be able to see him from inside and, as slowly as he could, he raised his head to peek through the crystal. 

Lord Angelo was by the swords on display, studying them with his hands clasped behind his back. Crowley could see the tension in his shoulders despite the apparent relaxed position of his body. Miss Andrews was walking around the room, and Crowley hid the moment her cold eyes studied his side of the wall. Luckily, it didn’t seem as if she had seen him after a moment, so he dared to look again. Her voice could be heard from where he was, even if a bit muted. 

“I see you didn’t even keep the sword of your family.” Miss Andrews clicked her tongue in disappointment. “Auntie was right — you only bring shame to the Angelo name.”

Crowley glanced at Lord Angelo, who didn’t even flinch despite the blatant insult. 

“And judging by your… general state, I bet you haven’t even taken care of your abilities. Gabriel would have been so disappointed, not to mention your father.”

Crowley’s face burned with anger. How dare she insult him that way? He had to resist the urge to barge inside and shout some pretty remarks of his own. For instance, she looked like she had a stick up her-

“Why don’t you test me yourself, Michael? I’m sure you are still able to remember what my father taught us. And, then, you would perhaps care to explain to me the matter of your visit.”

Crowley’s mouth was agape. Lord Angelo hadn’t even looked her way, his gaze still fixed on the sword display. Crowley’s eyes, as used as they were at observing him, could see Lord Angelo’s hands shaking slightly. Worry clenched its fists around Crowley’s chest once more, but for one thing he was sure: he trusted Lord Angelo. If he deemed it necessary to do this, Crowley would accept it. He could go in there if things got ugly, either way.

Miss Andrews stopped pacing around in front of Crowley’s window once more. Crowley held his breath but she turned around, giving her back to Crowley. No chances of getting discovered, then. 

“Are you sure? Wouldn’t have you crying if I hurt you, _dear_ cousin. You have to be presentable on the day of your wedding.”

Lord Angelo’s voice shifted slightly as if he had turned around to face Miss Andrews, but she was blocking Crowley’s field of vision and there was no way to be sure.

“I don’t think that will be a problem, dear.”

Miss Andrews walked over Lord Angelo who, now visible for Crowley, was holding two swords, with one waiting for her to take. She did so while Lord Angelo gave her a tight smile. 

They put themselves in position. Crowley swallowed, worried; they were going to fence without a third party to watch. Well, he was there, but they didn’t know that — wasn’t it against the… fencing rules or something? Crowley had never had a serious competition before, so he wasn’t quite sure. 

They saluted each other; Lord Angelo, with a serious face, his eyes oddly grey, while Miss Andrews had a self-satisfied smile Crowley wanted to punch away. 

They put themselves in position, Lord Angelo with his left arm behind his straight back and his feet separated, sword in front of him with his wrist high. Miss Andrews mirrored his position, but lifting her left hand in an arch, close to her head.

Their swords touched, and Crowley stopped breathing. The blades clinked once, twice, hands twitching. The opponents were studying each other, seeing how the other reacted. 

Suddenly, Miss Andrews began thrusting her sword with more emphasis, her wrist impossibly fast. She lunged forward, but Lord Angelo moved his wrist to the side, deflecting it easily. The rest of his body didn’t move from its place. They continued doing small circular movements, deflecting each other’s attempts to take it further.

Crowley was enthralled. He had never seen Lord Angelo fence like that, with such agility and quickness of reaction. He hadn’t needed to with Crowley, that was obvious; but it was now more evident how far Lord Angelo’s ability went. 

He was seemingly unperturbed, but Crowley noticed the drops of sweat starting to form on his forehead. His expression didn’t let any of his emotions slip. His arm was high, his wrist facing downwards while Miss Andrews tried to break his defence. 

Crowley’s attraction to Lord Angelo was making itself known with a familiar pool of lust deep down in his belly. But something was not right, and it bothered Crowley highly; this was not the usual Aziraphale he loved and cherished. Since he had left the library, he had put on the Lord Angelo mask Crowley had not seen since their first days together. It was odd and perturbing to see it now again, especially while Lord Angelo was fencing, something he particularly despised, and it was obvious now in a way it hadn’t been with Crowley. There was no joy in his eyes, no pleasure at showing his ability and techniques he had learnt. It was full of grace and art, true; but it was also, somehow, artificial. Crowley hated to see him like this.

“I see you do maintain some of your ability, cousin.”

Lord Angelo smiled and, for the first time that day, Crowley saw Aziraphale in it. “I have an excellent fencing companion.”

Miss Andrews huffed and deflected Lord Angelo’s swift movement. “That slender man? I didn’t take him for a good fencer. He certainly needs to build in some muscle.”

“I find him perfectly adequate as he is.”

Crowley caught a glimpse of Aziraphale in his expression again, making his heart pound; but at that moment, his blade didn’t deflect Miss Andrews’s attack completely, hurting him on this right arm and cutting through his shirt. The fabric gave and blood started to stain through the white linen.

Without thinking, Crowley got up, ready to enter the room and stop the fight, but Lord Angelo, not acknowledging his wound, lunged; his attack didn’t hit home, but it was enough to make Crowley hesitate. 

He took too long to kneel again. Aziraphale noticed him.

Their eyes met, and Crowley observed his eyes going wide for a second. He could practically hear Aziraphale’s voice saying “what are _you_ doing here?” but, instead, Lord Angelo slipped back into his expression, and he redirected his attention back to Miss Andrews. Which was perfectly fine, of course, as he was dueling with her, but it didn’t ease the lump in Crowley’s throat. Before Miss Andrews could see him, he knelt under the window again.

Lord Angelo’s moment of hesitancy didn’t go unnoticed by Miss Andrews, who took the chance to lunge forward again, making Lord Angelo retreat for the first time. Crowley, from where he was, could only see part of her face now; he noticed the sadistic grin on her face. Crowley’s anxiety was increasing, as the blood was spreading quickly due to Lord Angelo’s continuous movements. The fight needed to stop as soon as possible or else Lord Angelo was going to lose too much blood. 

Crowley trusted Lord Angelo to do so.

The sound of the blades continued to fill the room, making Crowley flinch every time they got too close to Lord Angelo’s wound. Both opponents were sweating now, their movements beginning to be less graceful and more mechanical as they tried to win. Crowley worried about Lord Angelo’s stamina; it didn’t matter how talented he was, it was a fact that he hadn’t duelled with someone on his level since Lord Gabriel died. Crowley held unto the fact that Miss Andrews was also starting to appear tired; she might make a mistake. She had to.

Lord Angelo had his left hand high next to his head, and Crowley wondered if he was going to use it. Miss Andrews must have thought so too, as her attention wavered towards it; Crowley observed her head tilting to the side slightly, momentarily studying Lord Angelo’s left arm. The lord noticed this opportunity and, with a lightning-fast movement of his wrist, disarmed Miss Andrews and caught the blade with the same hand, holding both swords. 

Silence fell as the air became abruptly empty of metal sounds. Miss Andrews stood there, frozen, her hand still in the air, with no hurtful words coming from her mouth for once. Lord Angelo gave her the sword again, a faint smile on his lips, while Crowley’s heart burst with pride. It had been magnificent, a display of calculated movement Crowley couldn’t help but admire. It was nothing like the way Lord Angelo had disarmed him, so many days before — it had been less grandiose, but the fluidity of the movement proved how difficult it truly was. It was one of those tactics that seemed simply and easy, but only appeared so thanks to the mastery of the person doing it. 

“That was rather lovely. Thank you.” Lord Angelo bowed, his eyes glancing subtly at Crowley’s window.

Crowley suppressed a laugh. Bastard.

Miss Andrews bowed with a smug expression not completely erased from her face. 

“I acknowledge you haven’t completely let your training go. Your mother will be happy to know.”

Lord Angelo nodded. His hand went to his arm, trying to stop the bleeding. Miss Andrews looked at the wound and clicked her tongue in displeasure; a habit of hers was starting to be very annoying.

“Go take care of that wound. We can talk later.”

For the first time, Crowley agreed with her.

“No.” Lord Angelo’s voice was as cold as the sword he was holding. “You’ll tell me, now. Enough of this charade.”

Miss Andrews nodded, visibly impressed. “Alright then. I was sent by your mother, as you can possibly imagine. She wanted to know how you were doing here, especially with your new little friend.”

Crowley’s heart felt pain at the word ‘friend’. He observed Lord Angelo’s expression but didn’t see any type of reaction. 

“As you can see, I am doing perfectly fine. Anything else I need to know? How is your mother doing?”

Miss Andrews studied her sword as if she hadn’t taken a good look before, letting the tension rise.

“My mother is still sick, but she’s been doing a bit better since your mother arrived. Just needed attention, I suppose. Lady Angelo didn’t trust you to tell her anything via letter, so she preferred someone to check on you. I’m glad the trip was worth it, this has been interesting.”

Lord Angelo nodded; Crowley wondered if he was starting to pale.

“Also, she wants you to know you’ll receive news from your fiancée soon.”

Lord Angelo was pale, and his foreheaded was pearled with sweat. Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. He got up with a whine as his knees complained, and stepped inside. 

Crowley ran to Lord Angelo and wrapped his arm around the lord’s waist, stabilising him. He glared his teeth at Miss Andrews, unable to stop himself anymore.

“What the-”

“Move! Can’t you see he’s hurt?”

Miss Andrews, bewildered, finally stepped aside. Crowley started walking, careful of not hurting Lord Angelo further. He glanced at him and saw his gaze reflected. Lord Angelo smiled gratefully, catching Crowley’s heart in a whirl of emotion. 

Right. Pain. Blood. Crowley had to concentrate, make sure Lord Angelo was safe. He knew nothing about wound treatment and he panicked, unsure of what to do. Lord Angelo must have sensed his stress, as he whispered Tracy’s name — Crowley didn’t waste a second more and started pulling them through the garden, in the direction of the house.

When they stepped in, Tracy was already there, nervously waiting for them.

“How did it go? What happened?”

She squealed when she saw all the blood, but luckily regained her senses fast enough as to go find bandages. She came back with enough bandages to tend a war zone, with a confused-looking Newt behind her with a bucket filled with water. 

“Where is Miss Andrews?” asked Newt, a bit scared. He had probably heard of her from Tracy.

Lord Angelo shook his head. “She already found what she was looking for. She’ll find the way back home by herself, don’t worry.” His tone made clear she wasn’t welcome there.

Tracy made Lord Angelo sit right there, on the stairs, as the lord was even paler than before. She helped him remove his waistcoat and shirt to have better access, which momentarily distracted Crowley. Not a good time to admire his wounded friend.

Tracy cleaned the wound under the intense scrutiny of Crowley, who worried intensely every time Lord Angelo flinched. 

“Don’t worry, Crowley, he’ll be fine. The wound isn’t so deep, I’ll bandage it and it’ll be as good as new. Probably won’t even leave a scar.”

Crowley felt a wave of relief wash over him, but Lord Angelo was still too pale to declare victory just yet.

Crowley decided to be brave. “How are you feeling?” he whispered, looking at Lord Angelo.

The other man didn’t look at him, and instead, pointedly stared at his feet. Crowley bit his lip, trying to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to get an answer, apparently.

“A bit tired. I’ve simply not been sleeping well, is all.” Lord Angelo sighed.

Tracy tutted. “You should rest now. I always tell you, all that reading excites your mind and makes it harder to fall asleep.”

Lord Angelo’s eyes seemed to flutter towards Crowley for a moment but quickly went back to their intense study of his shoes. Crowley must have imagined it.

“I suppose,” Lord Angelo said, with a quiet voice. 

His state was breaking Crowley’s heart. Was it his fault? His presence had done nothing but unnecessarily harm Lord Angelo further, not only by distracting him while he fought Miss Andrews but since he had arrived.

It was perhaps time to leave, even if he left the portrait undone.

“Done. Now go rest, for God’s sake.”

Tracy got up and picked up the bloody shirt and stained rags, shooing Newt out of the room ahead of her. 

Crowley, awkwardly, made a gesture to follow them, but Lord Angelo’s voice stopped him.

“Wait.”

Crowley spun around, his arms pressed to his body, unsure of what to do with them. For some reason, Crowley remembered what he had done thinking of the man before him, the man he had hurt so much and probably didn’t want to look at his stupid face anymore, but was now for some reason asking him to wait. Crowley felt ashamed, stupid, and honestly slightly aroused. He drowned that part of his brain quick enough.

“I think I owe it to you to tell you something. Well, it’s simply that, ehm.” Lord Angelo was hesitant, still not looking at Crowley. His voice was somehow distant, all past warmth gone. Crowley’s heart tugged. The hesitancy wasn’t enough to make his mask drop, his face still serious and empty of Aziraphale’s true emotions.

Lord Angelo sighed, steadying himself. He lifted his head, looking at Crowley in the eyes this time. His eyes were still serious and grey. There was no stormy blue in them. 

“I forgive you.”

His voice was cold, unfamiliar. It was not Aziraphale’s, and it cut through Crowley’s soul like a knife. 

No. Not this.

Crowley stepped back as if he had been wounded. Lord Angelo frowned as if he didn’t know the effect his words just had.

“I don’t want to be forgiven, _my lord_. Not now, not ever. What I did was horrible, it’s unforgivable. This is— this is not—” Crowley choked.

He didn’t want this. Well, yes, he wanted for Aziraphale to forgive him, not _Lord Angelo._ He just wanted his friend back, to go back to how they were, but it was too late, apparently; Aziraphale had gone up in flames by Crowley’s hand, as he had feared. 

Crowley did the only thing he could think of. He ran away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a quote from War of the Foxes by Richard Siken


	11. To whom do these distances belong that separated us and that now bind us?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops! I got tangled with irl stuff and totally forgot to post the chapter. But hey, a couple of hours late isn't so bad right? XD

_And I? I drink, I burn, I gather dreams._

\- Hélène Cixous, from _The Book of Promethea,_ tr. by Betsy Wing

Days were all the same without anything to wait for. The sun rose and set without anything said in between. Light went out and Aziraphale couldn’t sleep.

He could practically feel his voice dying in his throat as days passed. He was used to it, this monastic silence accompanying him everywhere he went; it was there in the library, waiting for him on the couch, hiding between the pages of a book. It was inside his glasses of tasteless wine, inside the space at his side, in his bed.

Books were also silent. Aziraphale stared at them, waiting for a sarcastic remark, a joke, some teasing from those words written in ink. The colours in front of him were all wrong, always, constantly; where was the colour red? He was sick of black and white, he was drowning in his bland thoughts full of a presence that couldn’t be there anymore.

And the nightmares. The times he could sleep, no rest waited for him. Morpheus was a cruel entity, it turned out, and only gave him nightmares full of an ocean and a red-figure falling into it, drowning and letting water close on him, while Aziraphale grasped only liquid, unable to help, while his screams weren’t heard by anyone.

In the afternoons, Aziraphale invented Crowley’s voice.

Memories rolling around, a clink-clink of imaginary pearls that fell from the ceiling to the ground, on him, filling his pockets. All of Aziraphale’s emotions, swaying hips, pointy teeth, red and black, pressing on his skin.

There was one that required special attention as it pressed on his chest, trying to carve a hole. It was that one fateful morning when Aziraphale had reacted so poorly, slapped Crowley and ran away.

He was such a coward.

_Loneliness licks at the corners of the mind. It will always be there, somehow, never leaving completely. What a fool he was. Real stories never end well, especially if he is there._

His personal hell closed on him, trapping him inside, and he willingly gave himself into it, forgetting all about the possibilities of the outside world. Aziraphale had done so before, he could do it again.

Fear. So much fear, about so many things; how was it possible to even breathe?

Crowley’s hurt face, shattered hearts falling into the ground between their feet, Aziraphale stepping all over them. _Kill them, silence them, nothing to be seen anymore._

No bird in his chest. Only a tulip, already fading, with its corners crumbling and darkening — oddly appropriate for the occasion.

Aziraphale was so utterly guilty of so many things. He shouldn’t have run away, he should have stayed and faced the consequences of briefly trusting someone else. He had dared to dream of what was outside of the cave, and he shouldn’t have been so surprised to see Orpheus turn his back. It was to be expected. He knew how the story went, right? Why did it hurt so much?

Who wouldn’t turn their back on him? It had happened before. Of course, it could happen again.

Crowley deserved so much more, though. Aziraphale could have just stayed there, listened to his excuses, and at least allowed him to defend himself, as was every human’s right. Aziraphale could have been the lord everyone wanted him to be and stayed there, facing the consequences, instead of letting his emotions control him in such a pathetic way.

_Smile, my dear, there are visitors here. Smile and greet them, we are powerful and we must show ourselves in such a way. Smile and be false, preserved in time, never changing and dead._

_If I were a candle, I would experience the passing of time. *_

But fear. Oh, fear, what a demanding lover. Aziraphale couldn’t find the courage to seek Crowley now, hear his explanations.

What if Crowley had never enjoyed his company?

He had been hired for it, hadn’t he? Aziraphale knew that from the very beginning. However, the fact that Crowley was a painter made Aziraphale study their relationship from another point of view. Crowley was not a mere walking or fencing companion; he was there to _observe_ Aziraphale, study his physique, so he could paint Aziraphale after. Which was odd — he had never seen Crowley paint. He must have done so in the privacy of his room. Aziraphale wondered how he had even managed to do that; memorizing his features, perhaps? Sketching when Aziraphale wasn’t looking?

It was precisely the problem. Crowley had just gotten close to him to study him better. There was no desire for friendship there, nothing else to find in his actions. Aziraphale was a fool, simply, desperate to have a friend, jumping at the first person who came to his house.

It hadn’t been precisely the case, if he stopped lying to himself.

_It hadn’t been just anyone,_ said a tiny voice in the corner of his mind. _It was way more than that. You know as well as I do. The depth of your emotions proves it._

He wouldn’t have been so hurt if he hadn’t cared. Aziraphale knew. He refused to acknowledge it.

Aziraphale hadn’t been special to Crowley. And that was it. Close the book and read another.

_Water, drowning, salt in his eyes, silent screams, hands that close but don’t reach, and he drowns and drowns and there’s nothing Aziraphale can do, he just watches and fears —_

More days passed. Same story on repeat.

Aziraphale observed the fire in front of him, late at night, as it creaked to then collapse on itself. He still had the same nightmares and the same wants he managed to silent; he couldn’t say the same for the nightmares.

Aziraphale understood himself, to some extent. He understood his impulse to get to know Crowley, connect with another human being in this self-inflicted life of solitude. The fact that loneliness was familiar didn’t mean he couldn’t get to know someone else if the opportunity arose, and there was nothing inherently wrong in it, especially if they had to part ways so soon.

Was it worth it, now that so much was at stake? Aziraphale cared deeply for Crowley, no matter the feelings the man could have. Being optimistic, Aziraphale could see that Crowley perhaps tolerated, or even liked, his company to some degree. However, Aziraphale had been so deeply hurt to find Crowley held such an important secret from him, that he was part of the old tune of his family’s manipulation. Was this relationship worth the eventual pain of saying goodbye? If Crowley ever wanted to continue this relationship, this _fraternizing,_ or whatever it was.

They were so different, from opposite sides of life. It didn’t matter that Aziraphale was tied to his destiny; nothing but a distant friendship could have ever worked in this case.

If Aziraphale was to contemplate the possibility of Crowley desiring to continue this… whatever it was, was it really a good decision? Aziraphale had drawn Crowley far enough into this mess of a family. Crowley had already been played around by his family’s manipulative tendencies, judging by the fact it all had been his mother’s idea. Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought of prolonging this situation for much longer; Crowley needed to be free, as he had been before coming here.

Aziraphale envied him, truth be told. He admired and desired that freedom of being able to make his own decisions. Crowley could; he could take his belongings, set sail on a ship and forget all about Aziraphale and his old surname. Aziraphale had to give him that opportunity, push him a little bit and free him from whatever deal Crowley had made with his mother.

_If only he could wear another mask much like the Lord’s. One that could be free, one that could feel and cry and toss his entire life out the window on a whim, with no fear of consequences._

The bird in his chest was still dead. Yet again, the poem circled back to the same point; fear.

Guilt manifested itself in the shape of stolen flowers hidden between his dishes.

Every day, when he opened the door _—_ _light and air pouring in with a promise he wouldn’t take —_ he would find them there, an unexpected spark of colour attracting his attention. They spoke of forgiveness and redemption, of friendship and love, in a language Aziraphale could understand but doubted was on purpose. He was never sure if the forgiveness was for him or Crowley.

He had awoken to the cries of a wounded spirit in front of his door. Aziraphale had thought it was his own screaming, manifesting from his nightmares into real life. Recognizing what it was, his heart pouring pain to his veins, he had hesitated in front of the door with his hand on the handle, wishing the bird was still there to scream bravery into him. It wasn’t. It was dead. So Aziraphale didn’t open the door, no matter how much he cried and wished to, because _he couldn’t,_ he was a _coward_ and Crowley didn’t deserve this. He deserved to hate Aziraphale and be free once more.

All this was what Aziraphale thought and contemplated, his back to the door now as he sat on the cold and unforgiving floor. The cries _—_ not his _—_ had ceased at some point. Aziraphale, desperate, had slipped for a second and with the nervousness of a mad man, he had written and crossed and rewritten his note, begging for a second chance. He had put it alongside empty plates of food he didn’t enjoy anymore, not without someone to watch him.

Of course, it had meant not sleeping the rest of the night. It had already been nearly over anyway.

The fear had reappeared when Michael showed up. A bubbling sensation arose from his chest as he heard Crowley’s voice, free of tears. He had recognized Michael’s, too, and no matter how scared he was of having to confront his family again, Aziraphale had to. The fear he had of his family was one he was used to, so it was easier to reign it in for a time.

Fencing with her had been more difficult than expected. She reminded Aziraphale so much of Gabriel, with the same smile on her face and her way of trying to belittle Aziraphale. The way she thought she was simply the best, unbeatable, her purpose and opinions always on top of everyone else’s _—_ she had the true and only important way of living, and everyone who deviated from it was worthless. Like Aziraphale. He knew it too well; she had told him all those years ago, in the much-hated school of his father.

After the fight, more than ever he held to his opinion; Crowley couldn’t stay. He couldn’t keep him like this, imprisoned with him and letting him fall into his family’s clutches. Aziraphale had to free Crowley instead of being so selfish and wanting him to be at his side, taking his hand like that night at sea.

So he did what he had been taught was correct. Lord Angelo forgave him.

And Crowley _—_ did Aziraphale have the right to keep calling him in such a way? _—_ and Mr Crowley had run away, apparently hurt by his words. It hadn’t been his intention, really. He thought it would push him away, yes, but not _hurt_ him.

This was the problem, circling back, connecting the dots once more. Aziraphale only could bring him pain, because looking now at the result of such a disastrous move, there were only two options:

Continue to be distant and cold with Mr Crowley as Lord Angelo, a painful decision for them both;

Or talk to him and try to mend things, a painful decision for them both too, as Aziraphale would have to get married and Mr Crowley would be a victim of this family.

It was what he was thinking of while he stared at Mr Crowley running away, that lovely back of his becoming distant and beyond his reach. Aziraphale hazily wondered where he was going to go, now, with all his stuff still in his room. He worried about it, but then saw a shadow pass in front of one of the windows in the living room, from where he was on the stairs, and realized Mr Crowley was going to the garden. Good, then. He could have a nap there.

The ridiculous thought made him laugh, the sound getting stuck in his unused throat. He didn’t want to watch Mr Crowley go away, no matter how much he lied to himself. Aziraphale had never been a good liar.

It was a mess, a complicated and utter mess he kept burning in with no way out. Aziraphale kept circling back to the same conclusions, over and over again, incapable of making a decision that didn’t result in unhappiness for all parties.

The pain in his arm was a constant reminder of it, and it certainly didn’t help. A day passed since Michael had made her unfortunate visit _—_ Aziraphale occasionally let himself feel smug about his victory — and Aziraphale was still torturing himself in his library.

_This pain is yours and no one else’s. Don’t ever let the red touch Mr Crowley, don’t ever make him feel it between his hands as you did then; your blood, your family. Yours to deal with._

The solution had come with the gentle sound of a plate being left in front of his door.

It was rather silly, now that he thought of it. He was so used to turning into ashes on his own, with no one to lend a helping hand, that it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask for help until now. Aziraphale had been having trouble getting used to continuing company, without Gabriel to pester him, and after the… _fight,_ to name it somehow, with Mr Crowley, all thoughts about communication with the outside world had flown away with the drawing.

In his self-inflicting period of hate, he had forgotten about what he could appreciate now. He still had Tracy and Newt, and he had utterly failed to be grateful for them.

Aziraphale opened the door before it was too late to talk to someone for the first time in days.

“Tracy?” His voice was rough, be it emotion or misuse.

Tracy was already walking away but she turned around incredibly fast at the sound of her name.

“My lord? Oh, Heavens, are you alright? Do you need me to change your bandages?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no, it’s not that, my dear… Well, if you could take a look at it, it would be excellent, but it’s not that. Ehm, would you mind if we’d talk? I think I really messed up this time and…” His voice broke, tears starting to form in his eyes.

“Oh, no, dear, let’s talk, there’s no problem at all.” Tracy stepped inside the library, caressing Aziraphale’s unhurt arm with circular soothing motions.

Aziraphale realized how much he had missed her.

Tracy took them to the couch, still making those reassuring touches that helped Aziraphale stay grounded. Aziraphale’s breathing slowly returned to normal, and finally noticed the worried look on her face.

“I must apologize, I don’t know what came over me. I’m afraid I have been treating you rather poorly.”

“Don’t say that, love. I know it’s been hard for you, especially these last few days. We can’t always be aware of everything surrounding us, sometimes you just have to let people take care of you.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done until now.”

Tracy took his hand between hers, smiling broadly. “Of course, my dear. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Aziraphale sighed and put his other hand on top of Tracy’s, patting her with affection. “I think I rather messed things up with Crowley, and I don’t know how to solve this situation. I would really appreciate hearing your opinion on it.”

“Of course, my lord. I’d be happy to help.”

Aziraphale pouted. “And no more _my lord._ You know I’m not particularly fond of that. Just Aziraphale, please.”

Tracy’s smile broadened as they shared a look of complicity.

“Well, Aziraphale, what’s bothering you? It’s about Crowley, right?”

Aziraphale nodded, swallowing, his throat suddenly dry.

“I found out why he is here. My mother hired him to paint my portrait. Did you know about it?”

Tracy slowly nodded. “I did. I am so sorry, Aziraphale, but Lady Angelo made me promise not to tell you and, honestly, I didn’t think you two would become friends”

Aziraphale looked at their hands. It was nice to feel someone else’s warmth, a familiar and loved one. He should have done this from the start, instead of letting everything go out of control.

“I understand. I am sure something similar happened with Crowley, but it just hurt me so much he didn’t tell me himself.” He let out a dry laugh. “I know it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Emotions rarely do. They just happen.”

It was hard talking about them, hearing them take form in the air between the two. Emotions were really strange and sometimes unpredictable; that actually made some sense.

He didn’t have to reason everything, perhaps. He cleared his throat, willing himself to continue.

“He was so easy to talk to. I even explained to him what happened to Gabriel and my father. He already suspected some things, and he had even read Gabriel’s diary.”

Tracy frowned at that. “Did he? How so?”

“He probably found it in Gabriel’s room, where I left it. It wouldn’t surprise me for Mr Crowley to be snooping around, he is rather the questioning and curious type.”

Tracy laughed. “That does sound like him.”

A moment passed, and then Aziraphale continued.

“I was so shocked when I discovered the truth. I realized how little I know about him. I feel so guilty on his behalf, how he’s been dragged into this situation. And I reacted so poorly about it.”

“Look, dear. You are so used to being betrayed and controlled by your family and how they make you feel guilty about everything. It’s not your fault, everything that’s been going on would be hard on everyone. It’s impossible to control our every emotion and act reasonably all the time, sometimes we make mistakes, and it’s alright. For God’s sake, your brother died recently, and you found yourself with responsibilities you had never dreamed you would have. In addition, when was the last time you slept properly?”

Aziraphale said nothing.

“I figured. And it’s not like it’s irreparable. You could try talking to him and hear his side of the story.”

Aziraphale sighed, despair creeping from his lungs to his throat. “I can’t.”

Tracy frowned. “Why not?”

“Because he can’t stay here! I can’t keep dragging him into this. It’s better if he leaves and continues his life away from here before everything gets more complicated. If this goes on, it will only end up with him getting hurt.” Aziraphale absent-mindedly touched his wounded arm.

Tracy tightened his grip on his hand softly, making him look at her in the eyes.

“Is that what you want?”

Aziraphale felt his eyes getting wet again. Oh, how he hated not being able to control his emotions, appearing so vulnerable. He remembered Tracy’s words not two minutes ago and realized she would be quite upset about those thoughts. And she had sounded so reasonable, so why couldn’t he just let himself… feel? Aziraphale thought that, if he was about to do that, it was good it was with Tracy.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, now, does it?” His voice broke.

“Aziraphale, it matters. It matters so much. Don’t ever think it doesn’t, my poor boy. You deserve to want things, like everyone else.”

Tracy looked oddly furious, her cheeks red with indignation. She resembled an angry mother chicken, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but giggle, which made Tracy relax her frown and giggle too, before continuing. “I know why you think that way. I’ve been working here for many years, and I’ve seen you grow up. It enrages me to see you in such a way, and please, every time you start thinking you don’t deserve things, remember my words.”

“I will, don’t worry. I’m afraid that, even if I do want to continue my friendship with Mr Crowley, he is not of the same opinion.”

“Why do you think so?”

“He probably just approached me to make the painting process easier. I don’t think he had a real interest in being friends and, either way, what I want doesn’t magically make him desire to be my friend, nor does it solve my current family situation.”

“Perhaps, but it does put things into perspective, and it makes it easier to navigate the problem, something that lying to yourself only complicates. And why do you think he doesn’t want to be your friend? He cares about you! He spends a lot of time with you, and he tried to find ways to do so, right? He even bought you cakes, and every time I talk to him, he only speaks of you and is genuinely interested in your well-being. He always seems so happy when he’s with you. With the state you’re in now, it’s normal for these things not to be obvious for you, but trust me: that boy cherishes you.”

Aziraphale’s face was burning. Had he really been so oblivious? Tracy laughed at his face with a fond spark in her eyes, making him blush harder.

“But he saw how this family is, after Michael’s visit. Is all this pain worth it? We’ll have to say goodbye eventually. I don’t want that to happen, so I did something awful. I told him I forgave him, yesterday after you walked away. It was a bad decision to make, but like this, he’ll be able to leave,” Aziraphale confessed, his words coming out rushedly from his mouth, afraid he wouldn’t be able to say them if he thought of it for too long.

“Haven’t you considered his right to a say in this?”

Aziraphale was confused. “Pardon?”

“He can have a say in this, Aziraphale. It’s not up to you to make these decisions, not by yourself at least. You aren’t responsible for carrying such a burden, no matter what they have made you believe. Other people are also responsible for their own lives and mistakes, and good decisions too. You haven’t considered that perhaps Crowley may _want_ to stay here, may _want_ to get involved with everything. My dear, you are worth it.”

Tears were now falling from Aziraphale’s face.

“I’ve been such a fool.”

“No, you weren’t, not truly. You are simply hurt and think you don’t deserve to feel good things. Which is a lie. You do, you deserve to say what you want, to live the life you want, and not to be responsible for everything all the time. Your existence does _not_ bring pain. Look at me, it’s brought me nothing but happiness.”

Aziraphale looked at her, surprised. “You really think so?”

“I do, and I am sure Newt does too. You deserve to meet people and build a connection with them, as you did with us. I’m perfectly sure Crowley would be beyond happy if you let him. Getting a bit of help from other people is perfectly fine and correct, you don’t have to carry everything alone. Everyone would be happy to help you, and this is the most important part: it’s not a burden, and it will never be.”

Aziraphale couldn’t stop crying silently. What a mess he was making of things-

Tracy tenderly slapped him on the hand. “Don’t overthink it.”

“How did you-”

Tracy winked at him. “I have my ways of knowing.”

Aziraphale laughed and with one hand, dried his face. He felt calmer now, a weight suddenly dropping from his shoulders, as a blanket he hadn’t known was there fell from his eyes. There was a gentle fluttering in his chest, one he knew too well, and everything made sense all of a sudden.

_Yes, I know you, right? You’re what I want, you’re my desires screaming at me, and you are so right. You are right._

“One more thing”, said Tracy, making Aziraphale focus on her again. “You may think that having a connection with someone will only bring pain, but your relationship with me and Newt brings you joy, right? Or at least, I hope so.” She chuckled. “It _is_ complicated, but you can’t give up just because of that. Life is so short, my dear, don’t waste it trying to reason and repressing your emotions. You are so quick on giving up on everything without letting yourself enjoy these connections, only because the fact that they will end makes them not worth it. It’s not true, they are so worth it because they can change your life forever, only if you give them the opportunity. Don’t be so afraid of them.”

Aziraphale nodded, a rush of affection for her crashing on him like a wave. “What would I do without you, my dear Tracy?”

He hugged her, and she returned the hug with the force of a bear and affection only a mother could have, while she quietly chuckled. “You have also helped me quite a lot, Aziraphale. Don’t you remember that sword? I could save my home thanks to it.”

“I’m glad it ended up being helpful. I can’t thank you enough for this.”

They separated, and Tracy made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Come on, dear, it was not a big deal. Now let me take a look at that wound of yours.”

She did so, while they joyously chatted. Sunlight was gently pouring from the window, and the voice in Aziraphale’s mind had calmed down. He was still shocked about Tracy’s words, and some aspects were still hard to wrap his mind around, but he had now a flame of hope in his spirit he hadn’t felt in quite some time. Things weren’t magically solved, but having a different perspective _was_ helpful.

Aziraphale ached to speak to Mr Crowley as soon as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Tracy so much  
> * : quote by Adonis.  
> Chapter title from "If Only the Sea Could Sleep" by Adonis


	12. I’d be home with you

It had been too much for Crowley to handle.

Having strong emotions was not something he was unused to, but nothing in his past had been comparable to what he felt around Lord Angelo. Forgiveness was a concept that didn’t sit well with him, as it reminded him too much of God and hence his past. 

Lord Angelo’s cold expression as he forgave Crowley refused to disappear from his mind. He had found himself outside, the unforgiving sun blinding him even through his glasses. It had been stupid, walking away from the house — he had nowhere else to go, but with Lord Angelo sitting on the stairs he couldn’t possibly go back to his room. He couldn’t bear seeing Lord Angelo again, for now.

So Crowley did the only thing he could think of in his emotional state. He fell asleep in the garden, underneath a tree without any apples. His unconscious state of self brought some merciful peace into his mind until his nightmares came back again. They were the same ones he had endured from the beginning, but this time they were muted, distant, as if Crowley wasn’t living them himself. Even if the sleep was restless, it kept his mind from Lord Angelo’s words, so he fought to keep sleeping.

Crowley woke up again, many hours later, with the sun disappearing on the horizon. Stars were making their appearance already. His body was sore, and when he moved, the cramps caused him to let out a whine. It was cold now, probably the reason he had woken up; his muscles were freezing and the ground was painful to be on. Crowley ached to appear on his bed without having to move, but human as he was, it was an impossible wish. 

He was grateful no one had come looking for him. He had needed that space so he could abandon himself to sleep and simply stop thinking about what had just happened. Crowley slowly got up, resting his hand on the trunk of the tree, making his back pop. With a groan, he began walking back to the house, not even caring to sway his hips in their usual manner. He just wanted to go back to sleep in a comfortable, warm bed, until he forgot the world had ever existed. Crowley wasn’t as angry anymore; the wave of fury which had appeared after Lord Angelo spoke was now calmer, the storm dying out. He was just tired and hurt. 

Luckily, the door of the house wasn’t locked. Crowley got inside and closed it, inspecting his surroundings and searching for any human presence. The house was completely silent besides the usual creaks, there to welcome Crowley. Good. He didn’t have the energy to interact with anyone. 

Taking his shoes off so as not to make any unnecessary noise, he climbed the stairs and reached his room, closing the door behind him with a sigh. No one had seen him; he was safe.

The room was as he had left it, with the curtains already drawn and drowning any light that could pour inside. Again, just being in the same place as the portrait made a strange emotion bubble up inside him, more intense after all that had happened, but he did his best to ignore it. He took his clothes off as fast as he could in his half-asleep state, discarding them on the floor, and collapsed on the bed, his consciousness finally fading away again.

===

He woke up again with an intermittent noise in the back of his skull. Or was it the front? Either way, the noise was filling his brain painfully and he groaned, wrapping himself even more tightly with the blanket and trying to become smaller until he disappeared. The noise came back, this time louder, and the ball of blankets and bitterness that was now Crowley groaned again, louder too.

“Mr Crowley, it’s me, please open the door. I must speak to you.”

He opened one eye. The ball of blankets knew that voice, he was sure of it, judging by the way his heart started to hammer against his ribcage. His eyes started to close again, the promise his bed was whispering comfortably against him too strong to ignore until the insistent noise came back. The ball of blankets on the bed judged it was probably someone knocking on the door, the noise also existing in real life outside of his tortured brain. He was slightly more awake, as he could now acknowledge that fact; however, his waking did not come with the strength to do anything else.

“Please, Mr Crowley, I know I hurt you and you’re angry, and understandably so, but it would mean the world to me if you talked to me. I understand if you don’t want to, and I can wait until you’re prepared for it if you ever are. I will accept whatever you choose, but please give me a sign that at least you’re alright.”

The ball of blankets decided to become Crowley once more, as he couldn’t have the owner of that angelic voice to be this upset, no matter how Crowley was feeling at the moment. He decided not to dwell too much on the fact that he was willing to do absolutely anything for the angelic creature; he had already too much on his plate to remember the realization he had come up with on that very bed before The Incident.

Crowley made an enormous effort of getting up. He took the blanket with him, wrapping it around him, not yet ready to leave his cocoon. At the last minute, he remembered his glasses and put them on before opening the door.

Light entered the room and slapped him in the face. He whined pathetically and blinked several times, trying to adjust his vision to see the angelic person standing in front of him.

As expected, it was Aziraphale, or perhaps still Lord Angelo.

He did look like Aziraphale, this time, with his pretty face drenched in worry and his hands wriggling in front of him, instead of hidden behind his back. 

“Oh, hello. Erm. How are you?” he asked, a bit shakily. 

Crowley was conflicted, that’s what he was. He was still hurt, undeniably so, and seeing Aziraphale again as himself, instead of his cold and distant persona the last time Crowley had seen him, was not helping to make sense of anything. He had not seen this Aziraphale for quite a long time, not since he had found out about Crowley’s job. Oh, how Crowley had missed him. However, _I forgive you_ was still ringing in his ears, suspended in the air between them, freezing Crowley in place and making him unable to reach Aziraphale through it.

“Ngk.”

“I see. I must apologize for waking you up, but you have been sleeping for two nights and a day and we — _I_ was becoming quite worried.”

Aziraphale took a good look at him, and only then he noticed Crowley’s state of undress; his eyes stopped on Crowley’s chest and blushed. Crowley turned red too, realizing that this was no appropriate way to greet a lord, no matter if the lord had already seen him underdressed. He wrapped himself better in the blanket, shooting a glance downwards to make sure every important bit was covered.

Crowley tried to speak, but his voice came out broken, so he cleared his throat and tried again.

“ ‘m fine. Sorry to worry you.”

They stood there in silence, Aziraphale still fumbling with his hands and Crowley going through all states of confusion. 

“I was wondering-” said Aziraphale, as Crowley said:

“Can I-”

They looked at each other and chuckled. One of the knots in Crowley’s hurt loosened a bit, as he observed Aziraphale’s radiance returning a bit as he laughed.

Crowley made a gesture with his head, encouraging Aziraphale to continue. The lord fluttered his eyelashes timidly, not quite as before The Incident, but close enough as to make Crowley’s heart sing a bit.

“I was wondering… would you like to talk about everything that’s happened? Only if you want to, of course,” Aziraphale quickly added. “I don’t want you to feel forced. Only when you’re prepared for it, if you ever want to talk.”

Aziraphale shot glances at Crowley, studying his expression. He was lovely, and despite himself, Crowley smiled. What had happened had hurt him, true, and that was still to be solved; but Crowley was happy to know that Aziraphale was willing to talk, instead of forgiving him and acting distant, dismissing everything. He was deeply relieved, and the sensation promoted peace in the turmoil that had been going on inside his mind.

“I would love to,” he finally answered. “Whenever you want.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale _beamed_ at him, leaving Crowley blinded for a couple of seconds. “I am so glad to hear that. Of course, you have the right to refuse it, it’s simply that…”

“Alright, alright, don’t worry about it, I already accepted.”

Aziraphale nodded, still smiling. “Yes, thank you so much. Would you like to talk after you have breakfast and refresh yourself? Or would you prefer later on? There is no rush.”

Crowley tilted his head, leaning on the door frame, as he observed Aziraphale. Something had changed in him, just slightly; Crowley wondered what it was. Aziraphale was still his nervous self, but somehow, he appeared a bit more relaxed. 

“Sounds great.”

“See you in the garden, then? Later?” 

“Yup.”

Aziraphale nodded again. They stared at each other once more, awkwardness still in the air. They had taken a step forward, at least, which was good. Aziraphale eventually walked away, and Crowley stood there, watching him go. 

His brain, catching up with the present, set his body into motion. Right. He had to prepare himself first.

===

Minutes later, with every hair in its place and perfectly put together clothes, Crowley made his appearance in the kitchen.

“Oh, look who’s here! The Sleeping Beauty!” Tracy exclaimed upon noticing him. 

Crowley grinned, swaying in her direction. He had missed her. 

“Good morning, Tracy.”

“Good indeed. Aziraphale is waiting for you outside, but there’s no need to rush. Eat your breakfast and listen to what I have to tell you.”

Crowley obeyed and sat at the table; Tracy gave him his breakfast and sat with him. She then proceeded to tell him all about the latest Newt-related news (newts, if you will). Turned out Newt had gathered up his courage to confess his feelings to Anathema, and it had gone well, judging by how happy the boy was. 

“Ugh, what a pity I missed it. I wanted to spy on them.” Crowley pouted.

Tracy laughed. “Of course you did.”

“And how did Newt manage it? Roses? Walk by the beach? Oh, more than walking, riding horses? Horses are full of spite, though.”

Tracy shook his head. “No, they did go for a walk, but he simply confessed what he felt. No big plans or surprises. And it was the right decision, apparently.” She leaned on Crowley and whispered. “I bet there will be a wedding coming soon.” 

“Oh yes, I can already hear the bells.”

They laughed for a bit and continued chatting until Crowley finished and, with solemnity, walked into the garden. He found Aziraphale underneath the apple tree, studying his flowers and writing something in a notebook. 

He was beautiful, as the light coming through the leaves danced on his hair and torso, creating a flickering golden halo. Crowley’s heart trembled at it, a buried desire to paint him starting to come alive again. But it was still soon for that; they needed to have this conversation first before Crowley could hope this relationship to go back to what it once was. He didn’t dare to yearn for more. 

“Ah, you’re here. Good morning,” Aziraphale said, turning around when he heard Crowley walking towards him. Crowley offered him a weak smile, similar to Aziraphale’s. 

Good morning, he said. As if he hadn’t seen Crowley earlier. How lovely. 

“Did Tracy tell you about Newt?” asked Aziraphale, eager to fill the silence somehow.

“Yup, she did. See? I knew he could do it.”

“Yes, but he didn’t need any grandiloquent romantic gestures as you suggested. It could be said that I was right.”

“ _Grandiloquent,”_ mocked Crowley. He didn’t offer another word so Aziraphale smiled at him, victorious. 

How he had missed the bickering. Crowley felt stupidly glad about it.

“How’s your arm?” said Crowley, while circling around Aziraphale, inspecting him.

“Oh, this silly wound?” Aziraphale pointed in the general direction of his right arm. “It's fine. As Tracy said, it won’t even leave a scar.”

“I’m glad. You lost a lot of blood then.” The memory upset Crowley, his voice reflecting his worry without Crowley to reign it in. 

Aziraphale stared at him, his eyes going a bit soft. “I apologize for that.”

“It was not your fault. Just… be careful.”

Aziraphale dismissed it with his hand. “I can take care of myself,” he said, while puffing his chest. 

“Oh, of course you can.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, but he was amused. 

“So,” Crowley cleared his throat. “Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?”

Crowley looked elsewhere, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. He still felt awkward around him, and broaching the subject was a bit violent all of a sudden. Crowley was scared that he would be driven away by Aziraphale once more, or he was going to tell him to leave. Aziraphale certainly appeared to be happier, but his intentions were a mystery to Crowley.

“Well, how come you changed your mind? The other day it was like you were pushing me away, somehow. I don’t know.” Crowley’s voice kept getting quieter as he spoke, insecure. He leaned on the apple tree to regain some of his dignity.

“Oh.” Aziraphale searched for Crowley’s gaze, but he still refused to look at him. “I am so sorry about that. Something did happen; I spoke with Tracy, and she gave me some meaningful insights.”

Crowley smiled fondly. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Oh yes. Very wise indeed. She made me see that I have been unjust with you. I reflected on it, and it’s true — I assumed all the responsibilities, not only for this family but for us too. I didn’t even give you the chance to choose what you wanted to do. I didn’t give you the opportunity to explain yourself and just fled, and then, I decided on my own to cut everything off.”

Crowley swallowed, his heart completely devastated. It was true then; Aziraphale wanted him to leave. 

“Right then.” He stood properly and turned away, ready to walk back to his room and gather his belongings. 

“No, wait!” Aziraphale grabbed his arm, and Crowley’s head shot backwards so fast it made him dizzy. He looked at the place Aziraphale was grabbing him, and the other man promptly let go. 

“It’s not what I meant. I decided that because I thought it was best for both of us, but it’s not what I _want_.”

Crowley finally looked at Aziraphale, a tiny drop of hope in him. He needed to know for sure, this time. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I want you to stay. With me. If you want to. I don’t want our friendship to end just like this, with a misunderstanding.”

Friendship. Right. Even if that part stung, everything else made the world brighter — Aziraphale _wanted_ him there! He wanted _Crowley_ to be _there_ with _Aziraphale!_

“I have fun with you, and I feel like I can be myself in your company. You’ve helped me so much, and even if you don’t like hearing this, you’re a good person. What I want to say is, thank you for your time here. It means so much to me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were a bit humid now, his voice drenched in emotion. Crowley did something that surprised them both: he hugged Aziraphale. Awkwardly. Very, very awkwardly, as they stood there without really knowing where to put their hands. Aziraphale chuckled and, just like magic, Crowley relaxed into his arms and they fit as it was meant to be, with Crowley’s forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the lord’s cheek against his neck. Aziraphale was as soft as he looked, warm and gentle, his hands on Crowley’s back. Crowley hoped Aziraphale couldn’t tell how fast his heart was beating, or how he was losing himself in the brightness of his cologne, or how the ice in his soul was finally melting. Eventually, Aziraphale started to move and Crowley quickly freed him. The awkwardness between them was finally gone.

Aziraphale sniffed a bit as he dried his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Come on, angel, are you going to keep saying it? I don’t really like being thanked, and you know that.”

Aziraphale laughed and Heaven opened its doors. “It’s true, my dear, my apologies to your poor devilish ego.”

“That’s right. Also, I want to.”

“What, Crowley?”

Crowley titled his head, contemplating Aziraphale. “I want to stay.”

“Really? Despite all this mess with my family and, well, me?”

Crowley smiled, unable to refrain his lips at the giddiness of the ridiculous man in front of him. “Yup. I’ll take it all. No problem.”

Aziraphale was so happy Crowley thought he was about to kiss him. It didn’t happen.

“Would you like to talk about what happened with my mother and the portrait? It doesn’t have to be now, of course.”

Crowley nodded. He was eager to let it all out, even if there was not much to say. The secret had lasted long enough — he wanted Aziraphale to know everything and leave all this behind.

“There’s no problem. It’s not much, really. Your mother simply contacted me and commissioned a portrait for her son. She didn’t specify much in her letter, but I didn’t have anything else to do either way. And it was a portrait, I’ve done thousands of ‘em, could do them asleep.”

“Of course.”

Crowley ignored the eye-roll. “So, the day after I came here, Lady Angelo talked to me and explained to me the general, em, situation. She told me about your upcoming marriage, the fact that you needed to send a portrait of you first, and most importantly, that I couldn’t tell you about my true purpose here. I had to watch and study you, then draw you in privacy. I’m sorry, that’s actually very strange, right? It must have been uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale promptly dismissed it. “No, don’t worry, I completely understand. Anything else?”

“No, that’s about it. I found out about your father and brother from Tracy, later on.”

“I figured.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Jolly good. I imagined it would have been something like this. Well, I thought about it later, after, you know… Ugh, it really mortifies me.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, it’s normal. Look, we’re sorting things out, right? Everything is turning out fine.” Crowley felt a bit insecure about it but was relieved when he saw Aziraphale nodding.

“You’re right, of course.” Aziraphale was a bit shaken, still, and looked tired. Crowley wondered when had been the last time he slept. He needed to relax, for once — all these worries were certainly not good for him.

Then it occurred to Crowley. “Would you like to go for a picnic?”

“What? Oh, that would be lovely. Now?”

Crowley laughed at the sudden interest. Nothing like food to cheer Aziraphale up. 

“Well, I didn’t mean _now,_ but we could do that for lunch if you’d like.”

“Oh, for certain! It would be so lovely.”

Aziraphale turned around then, his expression changing. He was looking in the direction of the house, squinting his eyes. Strange. Crowley glanced in the same direction but saw nothing of importance. 

“What?”

“I think I’ve heard something.”

Then, Aziraphale started walking towards the house, disappearing behind a corner. Crowley frowned and promptly followed him, with curiosity and a bit of worry in his mind. 

“Oh, I knew it! Curiosity killed the cat, did you know that?”

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s voice and found him, with Tracy and Newt, behind a wall of the house. Tracy and Newt appeared oddly sorry. 

“But the knowledge revived him. What’s going on?” 

Aziraphale huffed. “They were spying on us. Which doesn’t surprise me.”

“Oh my. I would have expected it of Tracy, but Newt? That’s a turn of events.” Crowley arched his eyebrows at the now terrified valet.

“It was Tracy’s idea, I didn’t want to come, I swear.”

“Traitor,” Tracy muttered. “In fact, it was Crowley’s idea. I was simply inspired by his comment earlier.”

Aziraphale turned towards Crowley, mouth agape. “You did what?”

“Well, not exactly. I know I inspire sin where I go, but I wasn’t imagining it exactly like this. I just commented I would have liked to see Newt confessing, is all.” Crowley lifted his hands, trying to prove his innocence.

Newt was scarlet red. Aziraphale put on his condescending face. “I can understand that.”

“Sure you do.”

Tracy observed them, her smile big as her curiosity. “I am so glad to see you made peace.”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale and saw him looking at him. Crowley’s cheeks were burning, but he ignored them.

“Yup.”

===

The day had agreed with their plans for a picnic, as the sky continued to be graciously clear. The wind wasn’t strong; only a gentle breeze ruffled their hair as they installed the picnic on the shore.

The placement of the blanket had caused a discussion to arise. The Isle was wonderful, and there were many places where they could have gone to eat; the cliffs (Crowley had vehemently refused), the garden (Aziraphale preferred not to step on his flowers or have Crowley yell at them the entirety of lunch), or even the town (both agreed it was a bad idea). They finally settled on the beach, facing the sea but not close enough for the water to ruin everything. The gentle sounds of the waves were relaxing, which went perfectly well with Crowley’s plans of taking some weight off Aziraphale’s mind. They sat down on the blanket Tracy had provided them (a horrendous tartan nightmare Crowley had to accept and sit on), with the food between them as they faced the sea — Crowley with his legs crossed in a way that should have been impossible for human beings, and Aziraphale primly, with his hands on his lap and his back straight, which had to be uncomfortable but somehow worked for him.

Aziraphale was positively _shining._ The sun and sea breeze had always favoured him, and today he was especially stunning. He opened the picnic basket, curious to see what he was about to find, even though he had prepared it himself with Tracy and Crowley. There were different types of bread, cheesecake, jam, chicken, fruit, and a bottle of wine.

“Oh, this all smells delicious. Where do you think we should start, Crowley? The chicken perhaps?”

“I trust you, angel. Just pick something.”

Aziraphale wasn’t even listening — he had already taken out a piece of chicken and, with a cloth on his lap to prevent accidents, started to eat, using a piece of bread to hold it. He moaned the moment he bit into the meat, as Crowley knew he was going to; the knowledge didn’t come with preparedness for it.

“Oh, hm. This is so good. Crowley, come on, take a piece, you must be starving. I mean, two days sleeping! How did you even manage?”

Crowley shrugged and took a piece of chicken in his hands. He wasn’t particularly hungry, not after breakfast that morning and all the emotions after, but he knew Aziraphale was right; he did need to eat a bit more. Some chicken couldn’t be too bad, especially seeing how Aziraphale had reacted to it. And it was the closest thing to tasting Aziraphale’s mouth.

He put the whole piece of chicken into his mouth, skin, bones and all, to then take it out without meat a minute later. Aziraphale was watching him, mouth agape and slightly horrified.

“To answer your question, I don’t know. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, some others I think I could sleep for a century.”

“Never mind that, are you perhaps a snake? Where is your gag reflex?” 

Crowley grinned wickedly and said nothing, while Aziraphale turned red and hurriedly continued to eat his chicken. 

The conversation was easy now, the previous awkwardness gone. They both wanted this; they wanted to be there, right at that moment, with the other for company as they ate and bickered, and screamed when a particularly strong rush of wind sent sand flying in their direction. Aziraphale managed to protect the food from it as Crowley spat sand, so the picnic continued without much incident. 

After lunch was over — and Aziraphale made some particularly suggestive sounds while eating cheesecake as Crowley tried not to look too besotted — Aziraphale posed the question as they kept passing the bottle of wine back and forth, drinking straight from the mouth of the bottle, as they had forgotten the glasses. Crowley tried not to think about indirect kisses.

“Have you always wanted to be a painter?”

Crowley stared at him, weighing the question. It wasn’t usual for Aziraphale to ask questions about his past — perhaps it meant that he was truly interested in continuing and deepening their friendship. He reminded himself that Aziraphale _wanted_ him there, and felt yet again another rush of happiness. “Why?”

Aziraphale wriggled his hands, still observing the sea before him. 

“I want to know more about you. I realized, with all that’s happened, that I have never really asked you about your past, and you haven’t talked about it much. Was it because you didn’t want me to discover you’re a painter?”

“Well, yup, that’s one of the reasons, I guess. It’s a bit complicated.”

Aziraphale turned his head around to look at him and put a hand between them, leaning closer to Crowley.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not comfortable speaking of it, as I’ve told you before. I mean it.”

Crowley smiled at him and wondered if Aziraphale was waiting for him to put his hand on his, there on the space between them, but the moment passed and Aziraphale moved to his place again. Crowley took a sip of wine and, seeing it was finished, put it on the sand at his side. He didn’t feel tipsy at all; perhaps all those nights sampling wine had built resistance in him. The alcohol had simply made him feel warm inside, and Aziraphale looked fine too. 

“I do want to tell you, angel. It’s just complicated, and I’m not very good at talking about stuff.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were open, bright, with no judgement in them. Yes, Crowley could talk to him about it; he was sure Aziraphale would be nice and understanding, and there was nothing to be afraid of. He was simply resentful of his past, and he didn’t know how he was going to feel while talking about it. Crowley wanted to, though. He wanted to share this with Aziraphale because he was sure the man would be there with him during the process, as they talked things through that starry night, all those days before. Crowley was suddenly a bit emotional, simply glad that their fight over Crowley’s true job hadn’t broken the trust they had started to build.

Aziraphale patiently waited for him to speak, knowing that Crowley needed the moment to put his thoughts in order, and he was grateful for it.

“I did want to be a painter. Not always, though, it just sort of happened, I guess. My father was a painter too, and famous. Your parents knew him.”

“Really? Interesting.”

“Yup, the world is small sometimes. They commissioned a portrait too, that’s why your mother ended up contacting me. My father stopped painting, at least in exchange for money. He’s impossible to reach now.”

“How so?”

Crowley started to play with the sand on his left side, uncovered by the blanket. The sand was warm, but not scorching, and Crowley watched as some grains stuck into his skin before he shook them away. He observed their colours, brown and golden and crystalline, as his mind took him back in time.

“He disappeared. It was years after I left my house and built a life of my own. I received a letter from a distant cousin of mine, who I didn’t even know existed, telling me my father had written to him informing that he had enough of the world. He had an ungrateful son, an embarrassment to the family and the painting world, and didn’t want anything to do with anyone. So he disappeared, just like that, leaving our house and some of our possessions behind. I guess that the old fucker lives in a cabin in the forest or something, drinking all day. He’s right though, no one will miss him. Perhaps other artists and some clients, but who cares, right?”

Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him as he spoke. It felt strange to finally talk about this with someone; he was surprised to find there was still resentment towards his father in him, but the old rage and fury that had once fed him in life were no longer there. His father was now a stranger to him, something outside of his life, a headache he no longer needed to care about, as he had wanted to when he ran away. It was all distant, the echoes of his past muted as if Crowley was trying to remember it through a wall of water.

“How old were you when you ran away from home?”

Crowley sighed and looked at the sky as the light pierced his eyes. “Fourteen? Thirteen? I’m not sure. It should have been earlier. I put up with it for longer than I should.”

“You were still frightfully young, my dear.”

Crowley let himself fall on the blanket, all his limbs extended. He didn’t calculate distances well, and when he extended his right arm the tip of his fingers brushed Aziraphale’s leg. He let his hand relax, and he didn’t touch Aziraphale anymore, but he could feel the warmth coming off him, grounding Crowley. Aziraphale didn’t move away.

“I just couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to get out of there, have my own life, you know? The only thing I knew how to do was painting. My father had taught me, even though he had no patience whatsoever. He used to punch me when he thought it was bad. How can you even do art _badly?_ Makes no sense. I think it was because of alcohol, but that doesn’t excuse him. It was worse after my mother died, even though I don’t think he ever loved her. They tried to give me a good, high education, as much as they could with what they had, but because I didn’t turn out as they wanted they… weren’t precisely nice. I mean, my mother was deeply religious. Prayed all the time, but it was kind of obsessive, as if God was watching us all the time and writing down every single mistake we did. My father hated that but couldn’t make her stop. I never got to understand why she did that.”

Crowley swallowed as memories of those times came back to him; he remembered the helpless, scared kid he had once been. He was glad he wasn’t him anymore.

“The thing is, she had a reason.” Crowley continued. “I was a demon.”

“Oh, Crowley, don’t say that. No matter how misbehaved you were, there are no excuses…”

“No, it’s not that. I _look_ like a demon.” Crowley prompted himself with his elbow, looking at Aziraphale directly. Aziraphale was frowning, confused. “You haven’t seen my eyes yet.”

Aziraphale shook his head, voiceless.

“There’s a reason for my tinted glasses, and for why my mother hated me. I was everything she was scared of, and now, looking back, I don’t know if I was the reason why she was so fearful of God. She had brought a demon to life, so it seems logical, I guess.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale reached out to him, this time, as Crowley held his breath. That soft hand covered Crowley’s own and squeezed it, reassuring him. Crowley realized now tears were running down his face, and it shocked him deeply. It wasn’t because he was still hurting from what he was saying; he had separated that part of his life from the present, cherishing what he had now. He was crying for that scared kid living in his memories, the kid who was afraid he was going to get kicked out until he decided he preferred to walk away by his own decision.

“I’m sorry, angel. You surely didn’t want to hear about this.”

“No, don’t apologize. It’s not pretty, I admit, but this is about you, your past. I want to hear it and get to know you better with everything you’re comfortable sharing. You gave me help when I needed it, and I want to do the same for you. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Crowley smiled, love for the man in front of him washing over him like waves. “Yes, they do.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand again, transmitting encouragement, and let go of it timidly. Crowley took a shaky breath before continuing.

“My mother used to take me to churches, make me pray with her the rest of the time I wasn’t being taught something. She used to inspect my eyes every morning, hoping I would have turned into a normal human during the night. She made me drink holy water once and cried when it didn’t have any effect. Well, she eventually fell sick and died. The rest of it was simply surviving my father until I escaped. You know, I enjoyed painting, like, genuinely. I just hated my father teaching me, but I’m grateful I could use it to build my own life.”

“They were terrible, though. I’m glad you could get out of there eventually. You must have felt so lonely.”

Crowley chuckled. “Yeah, they really were. I don’t miss them, that’s for sure. And well, I was used to being alone; later on, I could travel and meet other people.”

Silence fell, but it was the comfortable kind of silence people that were comfortable with each other could share. Crowley was melting under the sun, perfectly content, the weight on his chest disappearing for good. Besides the heavy conversation, he wished all days could be like this. One thought occurred to him, and he turned around to look at Aziraphale.

“Do you want me to show you my eyes?”

Aziraphale blinked several times, also coming back from wherever he had drifted to.

“Only if you want to. You have already shared so much, are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m so used to the glasses I had forgotten all about them, to be honest.” It was true, but Crowley was indeed nervous about the whole ordeal. He was scared about Aziraphale feeling disgusted about it but determined to lower the walls between them.

Crowley moved and sat properly, facing Aziraphale. He sighed and, without wasting more time, took his glasses off.

He immediately regretted it, as he forgot it was the middle of the day and there were no clouds to be seen. The sun stabbed his eyes, and he groaned while he blinked, trying to get used to the light. Aziraphale giggled, and Crowley relaxed his shoulders, without noticing he had been tense.

Finally, he looked at Aziraphale, and the vision cut his breath. He was even more gorgeous now, without the tinted crystals between them; he could see properly the lines on his face, the dimples, the way his eyes shone and oh, the colour of them; that hazel blue or green, stormy and celestial at the same time. He was a work of art.

“Oh, Crowley, they’re gorgeous. I have never seen eyes like yours.”

_I could say the same,_ was all Crowley could think. Then his brain caught on Aziraphale’s words.

“ _Gorgeous?_ They really aren’t. Perhaps you should put on those tiny little glasses of yours.”

“My vision is perfectly fine, thank you very much. I only need them for reading. But Crowley, dear, what do you say is wrong with your eyes? They’re a beautiful shade of yellow! Like flowers!”

“Flowers, angel? Really?”

Aziraphale pouted. “I am right though.”

“But that’s the thing, Aziraphale. How many times have you seen someone with yellow eyes? They’re not even golden or something pretty. Just yellow, like a snake.”

“Or a cat.”

Crowley would be lying if he insisted he wasn’t bewildered by Aziraphale’s reaction. It was a nice surprise, as there was no trace of rejection for his features, but being compared with a cat wasn’t in his plans. Crowley grimaced, a bit amused, and put on his glasses muttering something under his nose, which Aziraphale primarily ignored. 

“Oh, no, Crowley, don’t put them on again,” he pleaded.

Crowley’s hand stopped as he considered it, but the sun was too strong for any other option. 

“Too sunny,” he muttered.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “It is sunny today. It’s really nice.” He shot a tiny smile at Crowley’s direction as if Crowley had made the weather like that on purpose. Crowley was sure he would manage to bring the sun for him if Aziraphale ever asked.

After two other minutes of silence, Aziraphale spoke again. “Are you happy with how your life turned out?”

Crowley meditated about it before answering. “I am. It was not easy at the beginning, but I eventually built a life for myself, and I’m proud of it. I’m getting a bit tired of travelling so much, though. Would be nice to settle down.”

Aziraphale nodded, the breeze playing with his curls.

“And what about you?” asked Crowley.

Aziraphale sighed. “Well, you know I don’t particularly want to get married.”

Crowley suspected as much, at this point. “What would you do if you didn’t have to marry?”

Aziraphale’s expression changed, then. He softened, with a little smile on his lips as he spoke. “It’s a bit silly, really.”

“Come on, angel, we’re sharing here.”

“I would have a bookshop,” came out hurriedly.

Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Like Anathema’s?”

“Well, yes, but without the occultist part. I’ve always wanted to have a bookshop, and gather all my books there. Perhaps restore some too.”

“ _Gather_ your books? Aziraphale. Do you know what a bookshop is? It’s a _shop._ People would want to _buy_ your books and you would have to _sell some to them.”_

Aziraphale huffed. “I know that. But I have to earn a living somehow, right? And who says I have to sell them all? I could certainly live without some of them. And not everyone deserves them, it’s not like I could just sell books to just anyone that enters my bookshop.”

Crowley laughed, delighted. He decided not to mention the fact that Aziraphale would certainly not be able to sell any book, no matter if he loved it or if the client loved books as much as Aziraphale did. 

“You’re a wonder, Aziraphale. And where would you open it? Here, in Tadfield?”

Aziraphale grimaced, wrinkling his nose in a way that made Crowley want to kiss it. “Certainly not. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my name doesn’t have the best of reputations here. It wouldn’t work. I would open it in London, in fact. And I know where.”

“Oh, please tell.”

“In my father’s old fencing school, in Soho. It’s not being used anymore, not since both my father and Gabriel passed away, but with some changes, it would be rather lovely.”

“Damn, angel, you have really thought about this, huh? Destroying your heritage? You even gave that sword away.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips at Crowley’s sarcastic tone. Oh, this was fun.

“Well, yes, I have thought about it. It’s not like I planned on marrying anyone, and ending up in a monastery wasn’t an idea that pleased me too much. Thinking about other possibilities isn’t criminal.”

Crowley lifted his hands as an apology, a grin still plastered on his face. 

“You’re impossible sometimes.”

“I try.”

Silence. Crowley entertained himself with the idea of visiting Aziraphale in his bookshop, being there to celebrate its opening, and spending time as they’ve always done there, in a place Aziraphale would be happy. 

However, he could hear Aziraphale thinking. He waited.

“Would you like to show me your drawings one day?”

“Gosh. You’re full of questions today.”

Aziraphale smiled and wiggled his shoulders, looking all clever. “Perhaps.”

“Yup, I will. I don’t mind showing you my sketches, but the portrait is not done yet.” Crowley tried not to wonder how embarrassing it would be for Aziraphale to look at all the drawings he had made of him. Perhaps he could only show him some of them, and not all.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind seeing it unfinished.”

Crowley sighed. “I do. I wanted to show it to you once it was completely done, but I’m stuck. It’s why I tried drawing outside that day, to see if the change of scenery would recharge my energy for it.”

Aziraphale fell silent for a moment, and Crowley waited again to see where he was going with that.

“Would you like me to model for you?”

Crowley choked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from In A Week by Hozier  
> The school was indeed in Soho!!


	13. If the devil were to see you, he would kiss your eyes and repent

Gentle light, always attracted to Aziraphale as it recognised someone of its kind, sparkled in Aziraphale’s eyelashes as he studied Crowley’s drawings. Everything was golden in him; his hair, his ring, his smile, even the gentle flames in his eyes. Crowley was a mere watcher, contemplating the sun and wondering if this was the moment he would get too close and burn.

“Crowley, you flatter me. This drawing is far too good, there is no possibility I am this handsome. I presume your clients are very pleased to see how beautifully you draw them.”

It was so far away from the truth. Crowley simply drew what he saw.

“Ngkrg. I think they’re pretty realistic.”

“Oh, come on now. There’s no need for flattery, I already consented to model for you.”

His cheeks were a bit red; perhaps the flattery had affected him despite his words.

Crowley could still not wrap his mind around the entire situation. Aziraphale was there, in his room, alone with him. It was a bit stupid to be self-conscious about it, as they had been alone with each other many, many times before, even in closed rooms, but it didn’t deter the nervousness pulsing in Crowley’s veins. He couldn’t stop pacing around the room as Aziraphale sat _on his bed,_ with the drawings Crowley had made _of Aziraphale_ while love-sick and obsessed. Crowley, with a shiver, realized that Aziraphale was sitting on the bed _where Crowley had been bringing himself to release while thinking of him._ It was bad. It was so, so bad.

“Dear, please calm down, you’re making me nervous. It’s not like I’m going to throw away these drawings this time unless you want me to.”

Crowley playfully grimaced at him, trying to return to their usual banter and keep his thoughts — and desires — at bay.

Aziraphale didn’t even look at him, still contemplating the drawings before him. Crowley wanted to peek and see which one he was studying now, but it would probably only make him even more nervous. He walked by the window and looked outside, wanting to scream. He remembered the first night in this house, in the same spot he was now, frantically drawing Aziraphale. A sketch Aziraphale could be studying right at that moment.

He was going to faint.

“Alright, yes, let’s begin,” Aziraphale finally said.

“Oh, great!”

Aziraphale stood up and adjusted his clothes, a light green waistcoat with gold embroidery and his usual white linen shirt. Crowley loved to see him like this, with no coat, waistcoat hugging his figure and doing wonders for his curves, and the shirt tensing on his arms depending on how he moved. Crowley wished he could paint a moving image to represent all of Aziraphale’s shifting beauty. His eyes were greener today, probably under the influence of the waistcoat.

Crowley was glad to divert Aziraphale’s attention before he could start questioning why Crowley had drawn him so much. He took the portrait with its easel, all still covered with the Shame Blanket, and placed it in the middle of the room. With the curtains out of the way, the room was big enough for what they were about to do.

He took a stool he had already brought from the kitchen and placed it in position, inviting Aziraphale to sit. The lord did so, wriggling his shoulders, delighted; but Crowley could sense a bit of nervousness in his smile. Well, he wasn’t particularly relaxed either, so that made two of them.

Holding his art materials, Crowley sat down in front of the portrait and uncovered it. The blanket fell with a shushing sound, and a sigh escaped Crowley’s lips. 

The portrait was far from finished. The face was partially done, the body more or less completed, and the hands were sketched but not painted. The face’s features lacked depth and feeling; it didn’t look like Aziraphale. Physically, it resembled him, but there was a distant sensation to it. It wasn’t the Aziraphale Crowley loved and, as always, his fingers froze in place unable to figure out the next step, as if he had never done this before.

Alright. Breathe. Crowley could do this, he had done so thousands of times before, with different people; he had known some of his subjects and others not at all, and he had never encountered a problem such as this. He flickered his fingers a bit, trying to bring life to them.

“So, what are you doing now? Stretching?”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Stretching? Uh, yeah, I guess?”

“Interesting. I have never seen someone make a portrait, and I am rather curious.”

Crowley nodded, but Aziraphale started fumbling on his seat, unsure. “What should I do? Should I smile, or make a specific pose…?”

Crowley shook his hand.

“Don’t worry, angel, just sit and look at me. If you need adjustments I’ll let you know.”

Aziraphale straightened his already upright back and put his hands on his lap, nervous. He smiled at Crowley a bit, who couldn’t help but smile back. Crowley sighed again in an attempt to calm his nerves. He studied the portrait once more, wondering where he should start; he settled on the hands, as they were the most untouched part. 

With a pencil in his hand, he turned around towards Aziraphale once more. His eyes met Aziraphale’s, and he was shocked to find him observing Crowley in return. It was normal, as he had asked the lord to look at him, but still. Crowley swallowed; he wasn’t sure how he would survive this situation, with Aziraphale continuously staring at him. The lord still had a small smile, as if unsure he was doing the right thing. Crowley openly smiled at him trying to reassure him, but perhaps his smile had way too many teeth as Aziraphale repressed a giggle. His eyes caught the light coming from the window with the movement, and Crowley could only stay there, unmoving, and be amazed.

Aziraphale’s head tilted slightly, curious, and Crowley came back to reality. Right, hands. He moved his gaze towards Aziraphale’s hands, which were awkwardly holding each other. Crowley returned to his painting and started adding details, some lines and basic shadows to guide the paint later on. Aziraphale’s hands were to be admired, really; they were as soft as they looked, with those interesting lines and veins on their back. Crowley slightly traced them, following their curve with his pencil and not with his finger or tongue as he truly desired. He moved his position on his seat and tried to focus again. 

Crowley realized he could perhaps use this chance to impress Aziraphale, show him what he could do and how he worked.

===

The sound of the pencil and eventually the brush filled the room as Crowley silently worked. Aziraphale didn’t utter a word, his eyes still fixed on him. Crowley was beautiful, his long hair catching red reflections from the sun behind him as he drew, frowning slightly as he looked at the portrait, but relaxing the lines between his brows when he turned around to study Aziraphale.

Aziraphale could do nothing but stay there and try not to move too much as not to disturb Crowley. Even though he was a bit nervous it wasn’t a hard task.

He was too enraptured by Crowley.

It was truly amazing, being able to just sit there and be expected to do nothing but contemplate the most beautiful man in the world. Aziraphale didn’t get tired of studying his lips as he licked them in concentration, how those long fingers held the pencil and brush and moved, wrist flickering across the canvas. Crowley grunted, annoyed, and rolled up his right sleeve as to have better room for his movements, unaware of the sigh that escaped Aziraphale’s lips at the sight of a freckled arm he hadn’t been able to see for a long time. 

_Aphrodite must have fallen in love with you and given you her beauty, my dear, for the vision of you is beyond the mortals._

Aziraphale envied Crowley — he wished to have the same talent Crowley had and put his beauty in a canvas for him to admire as many times as he desired. Crowley put a leg on the stool, leaning towards the portrait as he worked. He was, unknowingly, giving quite a sight to Aziraphale, who couldn’t help but let his eyes watch the curve of those lean legs and the space between them. He sensed, before he saw, the moment Crowley turned around again to see him, so he quickly returned his gaze to Crowley’s face, feigning innocence. 

Crowley didn’t realize a thing and, after staring at Aziraphale for a bit — sometimes exchanging looks with Aziraphale, making him wonder if he was working simultaneously on different parts of it — turned around to the painting again, a lock of hair falling on his face. Crowley didn’t pay attention to it, but as he moved, the strand fell into his eyes, somehow getting behind the glasses. Aziraphale could see him blinking uncomfortably but too concentrated on the task at hand he wasn’t making any gesture to put it away. 

Aziraphale, without thinking, got up and headed for him. Crowley didn’t even realize he had moved until Aziraphale’s fingers brushed his face. He flinched, surprised, and stared at Aziraphale with his mouth slightly agape. Gently, Aziraphale tucked the strand of hair behind Crowley’s ear, and his fingers brushed the side of Crowley’s face before he pulled away again. Crowley blushed, or it was perhaps the sun heating him. 

“Angel?”

“There you go, dear, it seemed like it was bothering you.”

Before Crowley could protest, he walked back to his stool and sat down again, the bird in his chest flapping its wings excitedly.

“Wait, ngk — you weren’t sitting like that before.”

Aziraphale looked at himself, unsure. He put his hands on his lap again. “Like this?”

“No, wait, let me.”

Crowley got up this time and walked towards him, putting the brush behind his ear, miraculously balanced with the glasses. Aziraphale unconsciously held his breath as he saw that black figure he held so dear saunter towards him until he was standing by Aziraphale’s left side. Crowley leaned on him, his breath tickling Aziraphale’s ear as he put those fingers on his arm, directing him to the pose he had earlier. Aziraphale let him, heart hammering and praying Crowley couldn’t hear its incessant beat. He had his head slightly turned around towards Crowley, chasing his scent and warm breath.

“No, angel, look forward.” 

Fingers gently held his chin and moved him, putting him in position. They promptly disappeared, leaving warm traces on Aziraphale’s face. He heard Crowley circling him, _watching_ him until he stood by his right side. He put his hands on Aziraphale’s arm and shoulder, moving it until he was satisfied. Again, Crowley’s breath tickled his neck, close to his ear, and Aziraphale shuddered. He wanted Crowley to kiss it, play with his earlobe, and the thought made his fingers tingle. He hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with a more pressing kind of trouble.

From his peripheral vision, he saw Crowley walking to his front to then lean towards his face. Slender as he was, the waistcoat and shirt opened thanks to the pull of gravity, letting Aziraphale peek at Crowley’s chest. His eyes wandered, taking in the ginger hair he could see, the freckles and the collarbone just in front of him to admire. Crowley aligned their faces and Aziraphale was able to discern those yellow, petal coloured eyes, even with his glasses still on, as Crowley studied his face. He saw as Crowley swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed, pulling all of Aziraphale’s attention towards that slender neck that demanded to be kissed. Aziraphale had the impression Crowley slightly swayed in place, like a snake about to attack its prey.

Suddenly, he felt Crowley’s fingers on his chin, his thumb moving just underside of Aziraphale’s lip as if wondering how it was before but not daring to touch it directly. Aziraphale locked his eyes with him, waiting and fluttering his eyelashes as if daring Crowley to continue. Crowley tilted his head and put his weight from one leg to another, bringing him closer, nearly as much as that fateful day against the tree. His thumb brushed Aziraphale’s lip properly making Aziraphale shiver.

“I think you were smiling, before, angel.” Crowley’s voice was low, his breath mixing with Aziraphale’s, as he shifted on his seat, definitely feeling too excited.

Aziraphale leaned forward and chased Crowley’s mouth, his desire to kiss him too much to bear. Their noses brushed, and Aziraphale saw Crowley’s eyes widen.

There was a knock on the door, making them jump. 

“Crowley, Aziraphale, dinner is ready if you want to join us.”

It was Tracy. 

“Coming!” Aziraphale stood up and readjusted his clothes, deeply embarrassed. What was he thinking? Crowley had just been helping him regain his previous pose, nothing else. He didn’t dare to look at Crowley again as he headed towards the door and to the kitchen.

===

Aziraphale’s fingers played with the precum that was already leaking from the tip of his cock as he suppressed a moan. Sweat ran down his back, following his spine, as he put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He was in his room, normally unused but perfect for his current need for privacy.

Night had fallen as he continued to touch himself, desperate to feel some sort of relief. Another moan escaped his mouth as he fucked his hand and played with the tip of his cock, bending his wrist just so as he moved his hand upwards, filling the room with wet noises.

It was pathetic, how much he wanted, how much he _desired_ and how close he had been to losing himself and his self-control to kiss the gorgeous painter. The way their breaths had mingled, the hot skin of Crowley’s thumb touching his lip but gently, a softness in Crowley’s movements that he was sure would deny if Aziraphale were to remark. How Crowley had told him to move, nicely placing Aziraphale’s arms and hands, tilting his head just so. Aziraphale wanted those hands to move him more, show him what else Crowley could do; Aziraphale yearned to feel Crowley shivering against him as he was now, the buttons of his trousers quickly undone as he touched himself without even reaching his bed, starting as soon as the door closed on him.

Aziraphale moaned now, remembering, again and again, Crowley’s face close to him as he touched his lips, so close Aziraphale would have kissed him if given the time. He brought his free hand to his face, mimicking Crowley’s movements. The brush of the thumb against his lips made him buck his hips, wishing to replace his round thumb with Crowley’s slender one. 

He slipped his thumb inside of his mouth, slowly licking the length of it and then just the edge of the nail, making himself shiver with the sensation. His thumb was salty because of dinner, which brought the memory back of Crowley licking his fork clean. His imagination wondered — what would feel better, to have Crowley’s thumb inside his mouth or to be the one being thoroughly licked, be it his thumb or something else, with that clever tongue of his? 

_Would Crowley be good to me? I’m sure he would. Those clever fingers would bring me so much pleasure, circling my cock just like this, watching me with those clever eyes, licking my neck as he slid his thumb inside my mouth._

Aziraphale put his back on the wall, tilting his head back as his eyes fluttered close, the thumb pulling in and out of his mouth as he sucked it following the rhythm of his other hand. The movements of his right hand were becoming more and more erratic, his hips going faster and faster as control slipped from him. He experimentally bit his thumb slightly, and that was it — he fell from the edge and came in his hand, panting.

After regaining control of his breathing and slipping his thumb out of his mouth, wet with saliva, he let himself slid on the wall and slowly sat down on the floor. Was this what he had to resort to? Masturbating after a minute of physical contact with his friend? Aziraphale was better than this, he _had_ to be — he couldn’t just lose control like this, first nearly kissing Crowley and now bringing himself off to the thought of him, imagining what they could do to each other. They had just regained each other’s trust and become friends once more; it wasn’t the time to anger Crowley again, violating the trust he had placed on Aziraphale that very same day as he explained his past.

Aziraphale had already destroyed their relationship before. He couldn’t do it again.

_The strength of your desires is going to be the one snatching away what you yearn with all your might._

But what was so bad about wanting? Tracy had surely not meant _this_ when she had said it was fine to wish. And Crowley had looked at him so sweetly when Aziraphale had brushed his luscious hair behind his ear, and closed in on him as he corrected Aziraphale’s posture. Aziraphale was perhaps reading too much into it, true — his desires were becoming too strong, too all-consuming, and he was now seeing what he wanted to see. Or perhaps this was what was normal for Crowley; the painter could be used to flirting, touching his clients just to appease them and make them happy. It could all just be a way to bring joy to a client, nothing more. 

Aziraphale only needed to resist two weeks and a half. Nothing more. He had to.

===

“Well, Crowley, let’s see how much you have been slacking off these days.”

Crowley scoffed. “Excuse me. I have not been slacking off, I’ve been properly training and all.”

“When, exactly? While you slept, perhaps?”

Crowley growled at him but Aziraphale ignored it. Bastard. 

They were in the salle after deciding to restart their fencing lessons. Crowley had been eager to, especially after Aziraphale’s fight with Miss Andrews. He wanted to be a good enough fencing partner for Aziraphale, enough to represent a real challenge for Aziraphale to defeat. To, perhaps, make this somehow enjoyable for Aziraphale. 

Crowley had promised they could continue the swimming lessons as well, even though Aziraphale wasn’t exactly a beginner anymore. He was a frighteningly fast learner; he had been able to swim short distances, last time they practised. Summer was starting to end, but that day was particularly hot; a good swim sounded fantastic after exercise.

“We’re going to go back a bit and visit the practice exercises again. I know you don’t particularly enjoy them, but there’s no point in advancing in level if you’ve fallen behind.”

Crowley grunted, not entirely happy about the decision in spite of the obvious logic behind it.

“Alright. Crowley put yourself into position and let’s begin.”

They saluted and Crowley stretched his neck.

“First, straight thrust. Come a bit closer to me.”

Crowley obeyed, his hair swinging a bit as he leaned forward several times while Aziraphale deflected the blow. 

“Good. With lunge now.”

Crowley did so, lunging forward from a wider distance towards Aziraphale until the tip of his sword touched Aziraphale’s chest. There was a small smile on his face while he watched Crowley move, making him self-conscious.

Crowley wasn’t exactly paying much attention to the lessons. Luckily, they had done these exercises thousands of times, and could honestly do them without thinking about it. It left a window for his mind to get too distracted with other matters; his mind was replaying what had happened the day before.

What _the Hell_ had been that? If Crowley knew any better, he would have thought the lord of the island had been flirting with Crowley. Unbelievable. The way he simply stood up and touched his hair and _his face,_ with a gentleness only reserved for the most cherished of lovers. Crowley had been struck in place, the ghost of the feeling still there as he fell into temptation and stood too, to touch and move Aziraphale into position, praying for the lord not to realize he had been perfectly posed already. 

He had the impression Aziraphale had shivered at it, fluttering his eyelashes and coquettishly studied his movements as he circled him. But what haunted Crowley now weren’t all those looks; it had been the way Aziraphale had reacted to Crowley’s thumb on him. The way those pink lips had parted slightly and his eyes, those impossible eyes full of storm and fire and _want_ , wide and pleading, as if the only thing Aziraphale wanted was a kiss, right there and then, and Crowley was the only one that could truly grant him that desire. Oh, and how much Crowley wanted to comply. He had watched as Aziraphale approached him, as their breaths played around each other, and he had thought _yes, finally, this is it, come to me,_ to then only be interrupted. All of it had been filed into Crowley’s memory, his mind ever the observer, impossible to stop himself from studying everything Aziraphale did that could potentially be served to haunt him as he wondered if that had really happened or if the depth of his love had sent him insane.

It wasn’t of importance now as Crowley, after weeks of studying Aziraphale, observing and classifying his every expression, could see a slight change in him. It was in the way he looked at Crowley, the way his eyes seemed to chase his every movement, or how he moved his shoulders, his tongue darting over his lips. Crowley was able to see these small changes in him, in the same ways he could tell when Aziraphale was putting on his Lord Angelo mask, or when he was being brave, or even the time his conversation with Tracy had inspired him. Crowley knew every one of Aziraphale pouts, the way he moved his hands when he spoke, every colour his eyes could be. He knew when he was happy, and sad, and angry, just as a spectator contemplated the most beautiful display of fireworks.

He did not know what these expressions meant now; he wasn’t sure if he had seen them before. They were similar to the one he had noticed momentarily in Aziraphale’s eyes when Crowley had cornered him against the tree, or when he had taken his clothes off that first swimming lesson, and all the ones after that; Crowley yearned to put a name to it but was afraid he was wrong. He tried to push his stupid hope into a dark corner of his mind as Aziraphale repeated the lessons and he obeyed, not letting his mind slip into other scenarios in which Aziraphale could be telling him what he wanted Crowley to do, what he wanted to see or do for him. 

He did the different lunges, changing the way he moved the sword with his wrist as Aziraphale had taught him under his gaze. It was strange, this feeling of being watched, as Crowley was normally the one doing the observing.

And Crowley observed, the day before, now free to do so openly. He was still drunk on it, having permission to let his eyes roam over Aziraphale as much as he wanted thanks to the excuse of the painting. It had broken something in him, making all of his desires unable to remain under his skin — he was afraid his desire was now too obvious as he couldn’t control his eyes from pleading.

“Now, the gliding.”

Crowley nodded and obeyed, lunging as his sword touched Aziraphale’s and glided against his until it touched his chest with a fluid motion. 

“You’re not doing it right. There is something off in your position.”

Crowley frowned; he was pretty sure he had been doing it just fine in the same way he had been practising until now. He didn’t comment on it, as he was not the teacher; Crowley observed, bemused, as Aziraphale walked towards him and positioned himself behind him. 

Aziraphale leaned on him and Crowley felt his breathing against his neck, just below his ear; the warmth irradiating from Aziraphale’s body made every hair in his neck stand.

“You’re not facing me properly, your angle is all wrong.”

Aziraphale put his free hand on Crowley’s hip, his fingers easily circling his hip bone as if he was nothing. Crowley had not realized how big Aziraphale’s hands could feel against him; he shivered and bit his lip, praying that no sound would betray him now. Aziraphale’s fingers, those soft and manicured ones were grabbing him but not with force, ever so delicately and gently; the pressure was making his cock interested and Crowley fought against it unsuccessfully. This was definitely not the time. 

Then, Aziraphale moved him easily, changing slightly the angle in which Crowley was standing to the side with his face still looking forwards. Aziraphale’s fingers were so close to his erection, too close. He swallowed.

“Better. You are doing so well for me, Crowley,” he purred.

“Ngk.” 

Crowley shuddered again, Aziraphale’s low sultry voice echoing in his mind. Aziraphale stepped away, sliding his fingers on his hip as he walked, leaving a rush of cold air behind Crowley. He felt as if his knees would give up on him without Aziraphale’s hand to support him, but he resisted; he wouldn’t have survived Aziraphale asking him what was wrong. 

Crowley tightened his grip on the sword as he desperately tried to keep his mind off sensual matters to regain control of his body. He couldn’t have Aziraphale noticing the effect he was having on Crowley. 

Aziraphale regained his position before him and Crowley observed as Aziraphale’s eyes went through him, from Crowley’s feet up to his legs, momentarily stopping on his crotch, or so Crowley thought they did, and studying his torso and arms. He was probably making sure Crowley was indeed well-positioned now.

“I will engage now.”

Crowley nodded again, not trusting his voice to come out properly. He watched as Aziraphale counter-attacked Crowley’s movements, meeting his sword as Crowley lunged. Crowley was sweating; his eyes, time and time again, diverted to Aziraphale as he lunged, watching as Aziraphale moved his torso, those strong arms stopping Crowley’s sword easily. It was feeding his imagination way too much and thwarting Crowley’s poor attempts to distract and cool himself down. The hot temperature was not helping to silence the roar in his veins.

“Could we stop for a minute, angel? I need a break to breathe, it’s way too hot right now.”

Aziraphale muttered something that sounded along the lines of “ _it certainly is,”_ but his thundering heart was too loud to trust his ears. The lord nodded and Crowley sat down right there, laying the sword on his side and putting his bent legs in front of him to hide his arousal. He put his head between them, arms surrounding it and he slowly breathed, finally calming himself down. Crowley could do this, he could be a good friend. 

After some minutes, he lifted his head and looked around him. Aziraphale was walking around the room, stopping to rearrange the sword display which seemed to be already perfectly in place in Crowley’s opinion. Crowley forced himself to stop staring at him, as it wouldn’t be a good idea. Instead, he continued to study the room, even though he had already visited it thousands of times, just to distract himself. His eyes stopped by the window where he had been watching Miss Andrews and Aziraphale.

His heart stopped. Someone was watching them. 

The moment Crowley noticed a pair of eyes looking at them, they disappeared behind the wall. Crowley stood up at once and ran towards the window, his blood cold. 

“Is something wrong? You want to open the window?” he heard Aziraphale ask behind him.

Crowley didn’t answer as he opened the window with a creak, having to force the old wood to obey. He poked his head out — there was no one there. Crowley looked around, expecting to see a shadow of someone running away, but there was no one. Whoever had been there, if there had even been someone, they were long gone. It had all been so quick Crowley didn’t even have time to distinguish any features. It was frightening, all the potential dangers surrounding Lord Gabriel’s death coming to his mind again.

Crowley remembered Tracy and Newt spying on them, just the day before, and his fingers relaxed from his too-tight grip on the window frame. It had surely been just that, Tracy or Newt watching them again. Everything was probably fine; all these emotions had been taking a toll on Crowley’s mind. He was just being too paranoid.

“Crowley?”

Crowley turned around, sensing concern in Aziraphale’s voice. He forced himself to smile; Aziraphale had been so happy since they made up, and he didn’t want to stress him out unnecessarily. A cold shudder went down his spine again as the realization hit him. He hadn’t told Aziraphale about what he had heard about Lord Gabriel’s supposed suicide. Even though it was probably all a lie from a spiteful ex-employee, he knew Aziraphale would have liked to know. And Crowley would tell him, of course he would, but perhaps on another more suitable occasion. Not now, when Aziraphale’s smile was so quick to come out, even in spite of everything.

“I thought I saw something, but it was nothing, sorry.”

Aziraphale chuckled, all concern gone. “It was probably one of those insects you love so much.” Crowley grimaced. “Come on, let’s continue, as I see you’ve regained your energy.”

And so they did. Crowley practised making steps back, crossing his leg backwards to dodge a cut to the leg made by Aziraphale. They went through some more exercises, and Aziraphale seemed pretty satisfied with Crowley’s performance.

Before Crowley could give in to cowardice, he cleared his throat to draw Aziraphale’s attention. “Next time, how about we have a proper _tête-a-tête_?”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow with an amused look on his face. Crowley persevered.

“I think I’m getting better, and I might not be as good as Miss Andrews, but I’m sure I could make you sweat for real.”

Aziraphale’s smile widened, that mysterious expression of his momentarily flicking through his eyes. Crowley swallowed, realizing too late the double meaning of his words.

“Alright, if that’s how you feel. I have two conditions, though.”

“Which ones?”

Aziraphale put a finger in the air, and Crowley got distracted remembering the pressure of those fingers on his hip bone. 

“You will take those glasses off. I’m sorry to be so adamant about this, but if we’re going to do this seriously, a misdirected attack could really injure you with those glasses still on. It’s too dangerous to risk it.”

Crowley nodded. The idea of losing his shield wasn’t making him very enthusiastic, but the broken crystal really could blind him. Either way, Aziraphale had already seen his eyes and had been more than accepting. He trusted Aziraphale; it was just a matter of getting used to it.

Aziraphale lifted a second finger. “We will take this chance to practise with daggers at some point. I want you to experience that situation, as life isn’t as fair as normal duels. Don’t worry, I won’t be too hard on you.” 

Crowley mocked him, pouting a bit. It wasn’t fair, he was not expecting Aziraphale to change the rules of the game. Well, at least he had been warned. 

===

Aziraphale was impossibly gorgeous. Crowley couldn’t understand how he didn’t blind himself when he looked in the mirror, as the reflection of such a light was surely too much to be mortal. He wasn’t the best at metaphors, but the sight before him was simply making him think in such a manner.

They had been solidly drinking for the past three hours. The day had gone by and night came after a swimming lesson in which they had raced and Crowley had won, but barely so. Crowley’s arms and legs ached after so much exercise, but Aziraphale appeared to be perfectly unfazed. His stamina was a wonder, and Crowley decided not to think about it for too long.

The conversation had come to a natural stop, and they were now happily sipping the last drops of the wine of their respective glasses. They were sitting on the couch in the library; Aziraphale was sitting on Crowley’s right, too far away from him in his honest opinion. Crowley watched, bemused, as Aziraphale’s motivation to be awake slowly faded. His eyes fought to remain open unsuccessfully. Eventually, Crowley caught his glass before it could fall from Aziraphale’s fingers as he finally fell asleep.

Aziraphale had had so much trouble sleeping, lately; Crowley was deeply relieved to see him finally resting. All that exercise had surely helped.

Aziraphale was so beautiful while he slept. His eyelashes fluttered, his body finally relaxing. Crowley put an arm on the couch’s back and rested his head on his hand, watching him. He was too drunk to realize that watching his friend while he slept could be interpreted as something disturbing; he was far too enthralled by it. Aziraphale moved a bit, trying to find a more comfortable position; Crowley straightened his back, wondering if he could do something about it without waking Aziraphale up accidentally. 

The decision was made for him. He watched, in slow motion, as Aziraphale slid from his position to finally rest his head on Crowley’s lap. 

Crowley nearly spat out all his wine, but mercifully didn’t. He put his wine glass down and stared at the angel sleeping on his lap, unsure of where to put his hands. Suddenly, Aziraphale turned around and snuggled closer to him until his nose was against Crowley’s stomach. 

He was so adorable Crowley wanted to cry.

Gently, he put a hand on his hair and petted him, finally feeling the softness of those blond curls between his fingers. Aziraphale hummed happily, and Crowley felt the vibrations of his voice against him. This was bad, so bad. Aziraphale was _sleeping,_ trusting him, letting his guard down in his presence, for fuck’s sake. Even more, the poor man hadn’t slept properly in who knew when, and urgently needed the rest. 

Precisely, the problem was that Crowley couldn’t now just move away from him without waking him up. 

Time to relax, then. He focused on the happy dizziness he felt, instead of the pool of want deep in his belly. They had spent a great day, basking in each other’s presence, returning their relationship to what it once was. There had been some incidents, true, but they were all provoked by Crowley’s delusional mind. Nothing had happened, really, so Crowley was proving he could control himself. 

His mind went back to The Book, and what strategies he would follow. He still hoped to make his emotions clear to Aziraphale; he imagined himself appearing with a bouquet and Aziraphale’s favourite cakes, how he would take him to the shore where they had shared so many good moments. Crowley didn’t want to think of all the negative possibilities, so he focused on being optimistic. He would offer Aziraphale the flowers and watch him eat the cake and then he would kiss the sugar from his fingers, showing him nothing but devotion. Crowley would confess the depth of his feelings towards Aziraphale and, if he wanted, he would kiss the cake away from his lips. If only Crowley could be more poetic, he would recite some poetry Aziraphale liked so much. Horses were definitely out of the question. Would roses work…? Deep, sensual red roses would be the best of options; Crowley wondered if Miss Petunia would have some. 

Aziraphale shifted in place again, waking Crowley from his reverie. He put one of his arms around Crowley’s waist, possessively hugging him. Crowley felt his hot breath, his cock stirring as Aziraphale kept hugging him and putting his weight on his lap. Crowley was surrounded by Aziraphale, feeling his muscles holding him in place. 

Crowley continued to massage Aziraphale’s head, hoping to relax him just enough the lord wouldn’t move again — no matter how much Crowley hoped for Aziraphale to hug him more. The warm weight of Aziraphale on him was so much to bear with; Crowley wondered if he could, somehow, manage to fall asleep. He didn’t even want to contemplate the possibility of moving away from Aziraphale. 

Either way, Aziraphale’s face was in too dangerous a position for it to continue. They had to change positions, one way or another; perhaps Crowley could move his head so Aziraphale faced the other side. He carefully placed his hand under Aziraphale’s impossibly soft chin, but the moment he began to move him, Aziraphale stirred in place again. 

This time, he brought Crowley down with him, as he was still holding him in place with his arm.

Crowley fell sideways, his head hitting the arm of the couch. He groaned under his breath, but the pressure on his torso distracted him from the pain. 

Aziraphale was still fiercely hugging him, now his arm surrounding his torso more lazily. He was resting his head on Crowley’s chest after climbing onto him. Crowley could feel the pressure of Aziraphale’s stomach against his thigh as Aziraphale snored. One of Aziraphale’s legs was firmly locked around Crowley’s ankle; Crowley tried not to dwell too much on the fact that Aziraphale was now on top of him. 

Well, he was lying down now, and he was far more comfortable than before. Crowley sighed and Aziraphale snuggled in closer because of the movement. He couldn’t help but smile at the scene. If Heaven existed, it had to be this very moment, with his angel in his arms. He put an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and, lulled by his snoring and the warmth radiating from his body, Crowley finally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote by Farouq Gouida  
> Fencing [lesson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Qtof3a0M-E)


	14. Touch the divine

Aziraphale was sleeping on the most comfortable pillow. Well, it was a bit harder than usual, and it was moving quite a lot, but something in him was completely at peace. The pillow moved again and he grimaced, trying to chase his dreams and return to them. Alas, his consciousness was way too awake for it, and he sadly watched as his dreams slipped away from him completely. He hugged the pillow, trying to keep it from moving in one last attempt to fall back asleep.

A strangled sound was what made him finally open his eyes. Aziraphale recognized his surroundings; he was in the library, more specifically on the couch. As many times before, he had fallen asleep on it. What was different was the pillow he was using. With his brain still half-asleep he turned his head around to inspect it. 

He met another pair of eyes, yellow and inquisitive, and perhaps slightly amused.

“Good morning, angel.”

Aziraphale, realizing the position they were in, immediately sat up as his heart jumped in its place. He stared at Crowley with his face burning more with each passing second.

“Oh my goodness, Crowley, I am so sorry…”

Crowley dismissed it with a waving hand. 

“No need for apologies, angel. The same thing happened to me once, remember? And you were exhausted. I hope you were able to sleep well.”

Aziraphale had indeed slept well, surprisingly; for once, nightmares had decided to leave him alone and let him rest. His cheeks flushed, thinking of the variable factor of last night. Sleeping every night with Crowley would be too much of a request, no matter how well-rested Aziraphale felt at the moment.

Aziraphale fumbled with his hands, stealing glances at Crowley’s general position. He hadn’t moved from his place, still scattered on the sofa — his legs were parted, one of them hanging from the sofa and one of his arms behind his head. He was open, vulnerable to Aziraphale, with his shirt askew and some buttons undone, displaying to Aziraphale his neck and collarbone. Aziraphale was grateful they had come over to the library without stopping to change into their nightgowns as it graced him with such a vision.

“I did. Sleep well, that is. Sorry, I probably crushed you. You must have slept terribly.”

“Not at all. Dreamt of angels and all.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and stood up. He rearranged his clothes and glanced at Crowley, who hadn’t moved yet. For a pillow who had shifted on its seat so much until Aziraphale woke up, he certainly was immobile now. 

“I’m going to go have breakfast now if you don’t mind.” 

Crowley nodded and finally moved, slightly flushed as grabbed his sunglasses, putting them on. 

“Alright.”

He crossed his legs then, his face reddening more.

Oh. _Oh._

Aziraphale had been so rude. Something in his chest exploded as he licked his lips. He wanted to lean towards Crowley, tell him he would take care of it, but he was frozen. Aziraphale just couldn’t do that, especially if it was just a morning issue and not provoked by something Crowley was feeling, hopefully towards Aziraphale. 

“We’ll see each other later, then.” 

“Yup.”

And without further ado, Aziraphale walked away, not desiring to make Crowley more embarrassed than he already was.

===

“Do I stay in the same position as yesterday, my dear?”

Crowley nodded, not even looking at Aziraphale as he prepared the paint he was going to use. Aziraphale pouted and sat down, placing his hands and squaring his shoulders in the same way he remembered. He hoped Crowley would correct him again, but the painter started to work in silence, stealing some glances at Aziraphale from time to time. 

The poor boy was probably still shy because of what happened that morning. Aziraphale wondered if he ought to say something, apologize again or reassure him it was perfectly fine and normal. Aziraphale’s mind wandered towards that memory; Crowley laying on the couch, legs open to him. Aziraphale fantasized about provoking that kind of reaction in Crowley, but he quickly dismissed the thought as now was not the time. He wondered if Crowley was aware he had noticed; Aziraphale decided to feign ignorance to spare him. Perhaps it wasn’t even that what worried the painter and Crowley was simply sleepy. He had surely slept badly, no matter what he had said before. Aziraphale studied his face, looking for any sign of tiredness, and there it was — even in spite of Crowley’s glasses, his face was vastly expressive. The way he moved his mouth and eyebrows was more than enough for Aziraphale to read him like an open book.

Crowley was pressing his lips tightly as he worked, brows furrowed. He was nervous, fidgeting on his seat as if he was having trouble concentrating. Aziraphale was worried, and he wondered if he should cancel their fencing and swimming lessons so Crowley could go lay down for a bit. 

Before he could speak, he noticed Crowley was staring at him for longer than usual with his brows furrowed. 

“What’s wrong, angel?”

Aziraphale was surprised. “Was I that obvious?”

Crowley pointed at Aziraphale with his brush.

“You’re making _that_ face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you frown your brows and pout a bit with your shoulders a bit down. And then you always wring your hands, like you’re doing just now.”

Aziraphale looked down at his hands and stopped their movements. 

“And you only make that face when you’re worried. So, what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, amazed. “Do you know every single expression of mine, then?”

Crowley put a leg on his stool close to his torso, his face red. “Well, not all of them. Just some.”

“For example?”

“Well, you…” Crowley flapped his hand around, drawing something in mid-air as he tried to find his words. “Your eyes say a lot. They always twinkle when you’re happy, and they die down when you’re serious, especially when you’re sad. You try to smile a lot but it’s not always honest and the way to tell is always your eyes. Also, I suspect you know perfectly well that you pout when you want something as you look at me with pleading eyes, you angelic bastard. And you wiggle your shoulders when you’re happy with yourself or when you like something a lot. It frustrates me, you know? How am I supposed to represent all of it in one unmoving portrait?”

Crowley stopped, breathing heavily as if he had been running, his face just as flustered. Aziraphale was frozen in place, his eyes wide. All this time he had felt so alone, so invisible in the world’s eyes as it kept turning, expecting him to play the role he had been assigned with not a word of resistance. And here was a man that had _seen_ him, had understood him on a deep level, had listened to him and hadn’t judged Aziraphale, no matter how selfish his problems were. 

The bird in his chest sang, demanding to be free — Aziraphale imitated it. He began walking towards Crowley, each step of his accompanied with a sentence.

“You have your body language as well, my dear. You always fumble your limbs around when you’re anxious, circling around all the time. Your eyebrows are amazingly expressive, it’s like you’re painting your thoughts on your face with them. You tighten your lips when you concentrate or when something doesn’t please you. You always sway in place when you’re trying to tempt me to another glass of wine, and your hands do impossible motions in the air as you speak. And, sometimes, your expression turns so soft and pleased, but I think you don’t do it on purpose, and I always wonder what it means.”

Crowley sputtered some consonants, as his voice was useless. They were closer now, and Aziraphale could see him swallowing nervously.

“Oh, and you do that when I render you speechless because I got too close to the truth and you’re flustered.”

Crowley stood up, now mere centimetres away from Aziraphale. “You also have an expression I haven’t deciphered yet.”

Aziraphale’s eyes roamed over Crowley’ face, taking his expression in.

“What I want you to know is, while you were watching me, what do you think I was doing?” Aziraphale pointed to the stool behind him. “Who do you think I studied from there, as you did so with me?”

Crowley stared at the stool for a while until his eyes came back to Aziraphale’s face. His expression was blank, shockingly so — Aziraphale was astounded, unsure of how to proceed. His palms were sweaty as he grabbed the hem of his waistcoat, waiting for a response. 

Then, slowly, Crowley blinked. 

“I think that’s enough modelling for today.”

And with those words, he turned around, presenting his back to Aziraphale. Crowley’s shoulders were tense as he collected his art tools once more.

“I’m sorry, Crowley. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

Crowley shook his head weakly. “No, it’s not that. I am not mad or hurt. I am just very tired, and I think I need to lie down.”

“Do you want to cancel today’s lessons?”

“No, it's fine. We can still do them, I won’t sleep for that long.”

“Alright, then. I hope you dream of whatever you like best.”

Crowley chuckled but didn’t say anything else.

Aziraphale nodded even though Crowley couldn’t see him and he walked away, concerned.

===

Sleep was good. It was nice. Relaxing, even. Crowley definitely didn’t miss Aziraphale on top of him, hugging him as he squeezed Crowley to sleep. He was not thinking about what had just happened.

His heart was still thumping as Crowley turned around in his bed. He was exhausted; he did sleep last night, in spite of what Aziraphale thought, but all of his emotions had simply sucked his energy away. He was utterly confused as he tried to make sense of everything.

Of course, Aziraphale had been watching him as he worked and during the time they had spent together. Crowley wasn’t a ghost, so naturally he was visible to Aziraphale’s eyes. He had to be studied while fencing, for example. However, that was one thing, and the other was for Aziraphale to _know_ him, to _read_ him. Crowley wasn’t uncomfortable with that, not really; but it had never occurred to him that he was being understood in the same way Aziraphale was by him. Crowley was the painter, the one memorizing and observing. Not Aziraphale. Besides fencing, there was no reason for Aziraphale to pay so much attention to him. 

Crowley didn’t understand, so sleep stayed beyond his reach. 

It was so stupid. He understood so much of Aziraphale, but he couldn’t understand _this._ Why did it escape him? Aziraphale had even made that mysterious expression when he talked about Crowley. What was it that Crowley was missing?

It had all been so much. Having an accidental erection (who could blame him, after a night of continuous skin contact with Aziraphale?) hadn’t helped at all. There in his room, Crowley instinctively knew he couldn’t push it further, he couldn’t continue and ask for an explanation to understand Aziraphale completely. It was why Crowley had stopped everything and went to bed; Crowley was sure he had been about to kiss Aziraphale, again, right there, no matter what had been worrying him. He couldn’t just do that because it wasn’t what Aziraphale wanted, probably. And Crowley couldn’t do it that way, not without properly courting Aziraphale, or before he could understand what was going on with the lord of the island. 

But first, he had to sleep. Crowley willed himself to rest, reasoning that if he appeared too exhausted in Aziraphale’s eyes, he would cancel their lessons and that couldn’t happen. His mind agreed with him and he eventually fell asleep.

===

The wooden floor creaked the moment Crowley entered the salle, as it always did. Aziraphale was already waiting for him with his hands clasped behind his back as he inspected the swords on the wall with an absent-minded expression. Crowley took this chance to inspect the windows, searching for any unwelcome spy — he had already taken a look outside and found no one, but there was no harm in making sure. Crowley wasn’t too convinced it had been something to worry about either way, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to fence in peace without checking they were safe and unseen.

It was amazingly windy that day, and the house creaked and moaned all around them; somehow, Aziraphale heard him, and he turned around. He was smiling, but it was apparent something still worried him. Crowley felt a pang of guilt, remembering how he had chased him away.

“I’m glad you could make it here. How are you feeling?”

Crowley walked towards him but stopped before he could get too close. 

“I’m feeling better, thanks. I wanted to apologize for my attitude earlier, I was just surprised.”

Aziraphale smiled more honestly. “I’m glad. And there is no need to apologise, I completely understand. You can pay me back by putting up a good fight today.”

Crowley grinned, worry slipping from him. “Oh, I will.”

Aziraphale gave him a sly look and grabbed their usual practise swords.

“Alright, after warming up a bit, we’ll duel as promised. After that, we’ll add the daggers.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They repeated their usual exercises, this time quickly, just to loosen up their muscles. Crowley was disappointed and relieved at the same time that Aziraphale hadn’t corrected his position not even once; he missed those hands on him, but he didn’t want to repeat that morning incident. Eventually, Aziraphale decided it was time to begin and they put themselves into position. Crowley, as promised, took his glasses off and left them on the ground, far away from them so they wouldn’t get stepped on accidentally. He blinked several times and when he got used to the light, it started.

They saluted and Crowley immediately lunged, thrusting his sword with a fast movement of his wrist. He was hoping the surprise factor would help him, but Aziraphale parried him with ease as if he had been waiting for Crowley to do so. Their swords met, metallic sounds filling the room as they lunged and avoided attacks. Crowley managed to do a double step towards Aziraphale, hoping to distract him, but he blocked his attack again and deviated his sword to the side while he lunged to Crowley’s chest. 

Crowley reacted and bent his knees, swaying his body to the side; the sword made the air sing when it passed near Crowley’s head. Aziraphale grinned excitedly, and Crowley puffed his chest proudly, his emotions roaring to see Aziraphale getting more and more caught in their duel.

He got up again and, without waiting, lunged, but Aziraphale deflected his sword upwards with his wrist. Crowley swayed his sword to the side, turned it around with his wrist and stopped Aziraphale’s attack diagonally. He tried a cut to Aziraphale’s leg but his opponent moved it backwards, crossing it behind his other leg. 

Crowley, panicked, realized he had moved forward with too much energy and was now losing his balance; he wouldn’t be able to stop an attack if Aziraphale decided to do so. Aziraphale’s eyes shone dangerously and Crowley did the only thing he could think of; he plunged forward, let Aziraphale’s sword cut the air above him again and jumped, propelling himself with his arms. It was a strange movement to do with the sword still in his hand, but he somehow managed.

“Wow, Crowley, I was not expecting that of you. You have gotten better, I’m impressed.”

Crowley’s cock stirred at the compliment. He silenced his thoughts, trying not to focus on the drop of sweat going down Aziraphale’s neck or the way his thighs pressed against his trousers when he lunged, or his pretty red cheeks as he praised Crowley. He realized, with excitement, that he had finally impressed Aziraphale as he had wanted to for so long.

Crowley swayed the sword in place proudly and winked at Aziraphale, who arched an eyebrow. Oh, that eyebrow meant bad news.

As expected, Aziraphale lunged forward aggressively, his sword lightning-fast towards Crowley’s chest. Crowley stopped it at the last second, his feet stepping backwards by the force of Aziraphale’s impulse. Before he could catch his breath, Aziraphale charged again and Crowley slid his sword against Aziraphale’s to push it to the side. Crowley’s security wavered, as he realized he had been about to lose his balance once more simply by being overcome by Aziraphale’s force. It was incredible; Aziraphale never failed to surprise him every time, showing him endless new tricks. Crowley knew that he wasn’t going to win, not this time, as he was merciless in front of Aziraphale — he repressed a whine at the thought.

Crowley breathed, calming his roaring thoughts, but wavered again when Aziraphale squinted at him with eyes full of something Crowley didn’t recognize.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Anthony.”

The use of his first name shocked Crowley like a bucket of water. His eyes went wide, disoriented; before he could react, Aziraphale met his sword again and disarmed him with a quick movement of his wrist. Its impulse had been too strong for Crowley, and in his confusion he lost balance again and fell.

He groaned because of the impact as he bent his elbows to better look at Aziraphale, but before he could say anything, Aziraphale put his sword below Crowley’s chin, towering over him. From this perspective, Aziraphale’s face was slightly shadowed, his eyes shining with that mysterious expression that haunted Crowley. Crowley swallowed, feeling his skin bobbing against the rounded tip of Aziraphale’s blade. Before had been nothing compared to how helpless he was now, completely at Aziraphale’s mercy as he studied him from his advantageous point of view.

Aziraphale, with his wrist facing upwards, put a bit more force into the blade, making Crowley bare his throat even more as he looked him in the eyes. Crowley found himself hypnotized by those stormy eyes as he observed Aziraphale studying his face, and then his whole body slowly, deliberately. Crowley knew how vulnerable he was now, unable to move with no sunglasses to hide his desperate expression. Aziraphale’s eyes followed the line of his torso and licked his lips, making Crowley bite his lips to repress a whine. Crowley’s erection was pushing against his trousers and his cock twitched the moment Aziraphale’s eyes stopped on that spot. It had to be obvious, there was no way Aziraphale hadn’t noticed it. 

Crowley swallowed again, not daring to move as he held his breath. Aziraphale’s wrist remained in place, keeping his sword against Crowley’s chin as his eyes restarted their movement, going upwards again. Crowley could do nothing but observe the way Aziraphale observed him back. Aziraphale stopped to study Crowley’s lips, his head slightly tilted to the side as if fascinated by the effect he was having on Crowley. Crowley could do nothing but wait, voiceless. 

Finally, Aziraphale locked his eyes with him again. Crowley realized, with a shiver, that there was a hunger in them he had not seen before. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale’s blade started to move. Its touch was delicate, a mere pressure on Crowley’s skin. Crowley’s breath was ragged as he saw Aziraphale, still observing his face, slowly descend his sword, following the curve of Crowley’s throat. The way he moved the sword, controlling every minuscule movement and pressure showed the extent of Aziraphale’s mastery, something Crowley had always felt weak about. His cock twitched again and Crowley controlled himself not to move his hips in response.

Crowley shivered again at the sensation as the sword caressed him, stopping for a second on his collarbone. He couldn’t stop admiring Aziraphale, amazed by the rawness of his beauty. Crowley didn’t dare move, even if he could escape easily. He did not want to.

The sword restarted its way down, reaching Crowley’s shirt. The collar was opened because of the exercise, so the sword descended freely over part of his chest until it found the first button. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was going to stop then, scared that he would, but then the blade tugged at it. Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s eyes and began to move his hands, wanting to help; but the expression on Aziraphale’s face convinced him to stop. 

The button finally gave up, the blade now opening Crowley’s shirt more. The painter was grateful he hadn’t put on his waistcoat that day in what must have been a rush of inspiration. 

Aziraphale swallowed visibly as his eyes contemplated Crowley’s bared chest, devouring. Crowley was melting under his burning gaze, lust building in him more and more; he could feel his trousers getting tighter and betrayingly wet. Aziraphale hummed, approvingly.

Suddenly, Aziraphale sighed and with a quick motion of his wrist pulled his sword away from Crowley and turned around, showing Crowley his back. 

Crowley closed his eyes and breathed, completely collapsing on the floor. He was too hard, too excited, his head spinning around. He could still feel Aziraphale’s sword on him, running over his body as if he was a gift to be opened and Aziraphale couldn’t wait to see all of him. Crowley _wanted_ him to see. He _wanted_ Aziraphale to continue and tear him apart.

But he had pulled away and turned his back on him, breaking the spell that had arisen between them. Crowley needed to calm down. Now.

He opened his eyes again as his breathing slowly went back to normal. His cock was still far too interested, but Crowley could at least think properly now.

Crowley found Aziraphale in front of the sword display again. He was selecting something and, when he found it, grabbed it.

“Daggers now.”

Aziraphale’s voice was raw, low, unnatural to Crowley’s ears as he stuck with short sentences. Crowley understood with a rush that this had also affected him. He didn’t comprehend why Aziraphale had stopped so suddenly, but his emotions were too wild to ask.

Crowley got up, his knees giving up for a second. He regained his balance and stood there, awkwardly, not knowing what to do. 

“Grab your sword again.”

Crowley obeyed and walked towards his abandoned sword on the ground and returned to his spot as confusion grew in him. Aziraphale turned around, and Crowley noticed his cheeks were flushed, his expression serious but his breathing agitated. He threw something at Crowley who, luckily, managed to grab it before it fell to the ground. Crowley stared at it in disbelief; it was a practice dagger.

“Get into position.”

Crowley was utterly confused now. Were they going to continue? He had no idea what was going on in Aziraphale’s head; for now, it seemed more reasonable to just obey and see where this was going to take them.

“Hold the dagger with your left hand and the sword with your right as you have been doing until now. I’ll show you some basic motions and then I’ll make a demonstration while you try to stop me the best way you can.”

Crowley nodded, his voice still nowhere to be found. Aziraphale made a circular motion with his left wrist, swaying his dagger expertly, which attracted Crowley’s attention.

“Daggers are tricky. Just like the sword, you can use them to attack and defend. The fact that they are shorter just means you have to be more careful around them, as they could be easy to miss if you focus on the opponent’s sword too much. You can use them to confuse your opponent or to even pin their sword between your two blades.”

Aziraphale made some familiar motions with his sword but adding the dagger to the equation. It seemed complicated to manage, and Crowley was having a hard time trying to concentrate. 

“An example of how you could duel with them both would be, for example, stopping your opponent’s sword with your own, and then exchange positions with your dagger to then attack with your now free sword. Or you could scissor, as I said before, your opponent’s sword with the dagger to then aim for their chest. There are infinite combinations of these movements as you can imagine.”

Crowley’s eyes had trouble following him. This was going to be way too difficult. Aziraphale’s voice sounded distant as if he was distracted too, his mind far away from that room. 

“Now, imitate me.” Aziraphale took a guarding position and Crowley copied it the best way he could.

He waited for something — approval, correction, anything. Aziraphale studied him, and he opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then closed it and turned his head. He broke positions and loudly breathed, still not looking at Crowley. Crowley opted not to move as he waited.

This was the strangest day of his life. And most frustrating.

Aziraphale moved again and began to explain to him more possible combinations of the sword and the dagger. He mainly focused on the dagger, as it was the new addition; Crowley did his best to imitate him, and sometimes Aziraphale made some remarks, but it wasn’t the usual teaching method Crowley had grown familiar with. 

Eventually, Aziraphale nodded and relaxed his posture.

“Let’s duel then.”

Already? Crowley felt far from prepared, the dagger still awkward in his hand. His concern had surely been too obvious on his glasses-less face as Aziraphale’s eyes softened.

“Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll go slow. You’ll simply see things more clearly as we duel. Trust me.”

Crowley nodded — if one thing he was sure of it was that he trusted Aziraphale.

They put themselves into position and saluted. Crowley tensed up as he watched Aziraphale move but, as promised, he didn’t move too fast — Crowley easily stopped Aziraphale’s dagger with his own. The lord smiled and nodded, satisfied, and then lunged forward with his sword this time, and a bit faster; Crowley met his blade and pushed it to the side.

“Good, good. Try to use your dagger next time so you don’t depend too much on your sword.”

Crowley’s ears warmed at the praise as he obeyed and stopped the upcoming attack with his dagger. He saw an opening then and, as Aziraphale had explained before, used the fact that he had stopped Aziraphale’s sword with his dagger to aim to his chest with his sword.

Aziraphale turned his torso around, meeting Crowley’s sword with his dagger, the metals clashing.

“Good.” Aziraphale’s sultry voice made him shiver.

They continued in the same way, duelling in slow motion as Crowley got used to it and Aziraphale quickened his pace. He didn’t do complicated attacks, as Crowley was far from being prepared for them; they just repeated the same attacks and blocks with slight variations as Crowley got used to relying on both blades. 

Even though Crowley was grateful to be able to focus on something else, his erection was still pretty much present even if not as urgent as before. His blood was still bubbling, and every time Aziraphale got closer to him, enough to feel his body warmth and scent surrounding Crowley, his cock twitched again reminding him of what had happened minutes ago. Aziraphale’s pupils were wide as he studied Crowley, and Crowley knew that his state was probably even worse.

His shirt was still open, after all, and it swayed freely as he moved, showing his chest every time he moved his arms to stop Aziraphale’s attacks. Crowley noticed how Aziraphale’s eyes diverted sometimes to it, trying not to dwell too much on it as Crowley attacked him. 

Just as he was taught, Crowley scissored Aziraphale’s blade again taking his chance the moment he saw Aziraphale’s eyes wander to his chest once more. This time he did so with his sword, twisting his left wrist to make a cutting motion towards Aziraphale’s stomach with the dagger. Aziraphale thwarted him with his dagger in the last second and Crowley realized, with a rush, he had nearly won. 

He couldn’t help it; he grinned. Aziraphale eyes were a storm as he lifted his chin and spoke.

“You are indeed getting good, my dear. But remember: dagger fighting is never a fair fight, _Anthony.”_

Crowley’s heart stopped as he registered his first name on those lips. Again, it caught him unaware and he froze; in that split second, Aziraphale lunged forward making Crowley step back until, surprised, his back met the wall, the impact making him let go of his sword. Aziraphale’s sword stripped him of his dagger as Aziraphale’s dagger stopped mere less than a finger's breadth away from Crowley’s throat.

Crowley stopped breathing as Aziraphale exhaled heavily after such a quick movement. It had been so fast Crowley was still trying to understand what had happened, but his mind stopped whirling around when his eyes met Aziraphale’s.

The lord was staring at him. His eyes were dark, the hunger from earlier returning the moment their noses brushed. Crowley’s head and neck were held straight against the wall to keep a maximum distance from the dagger, even if he couldn’t be harmed by a practice one. Aziraphale was leaning towards him and then, suddenly, Crowley finally caught up on the situation.

Aziraphale, with the momentum of his movement, had slammed him against the wall while he held the dagger against Crowley’s throat, the blade caressing him slightly in the same way the sword had done earlier. Aziraphale’s body was against him.

Their hips were pressing close, each other’s erections now obvious to both of them.

Crowley tried not to move, not to breathe, not to utter a sound, as he watched, fascinated, the emotions swirling in Aziraphale. Some of them were familiar: there were pleasure and surprise in the little sparkles floating in his eyes. His eyebrows were frowning in concentration, his gaze focused deeply on Crowley, and his lips were parted as if he was about to eat his favourite cake. There was that hunger, deep and powerful, rushing over Crowley and mirroring his own. And there was again that emotion Crowley couldn’t place but he was dying to meet and be devoured by it.

Crowley watched, eyes wide, as Aziraphale’s dagger slowly moved from its place and without touching his skin, descended towards his open shirt. Aziraphale studied him, observing his reaction; his blade caressed Crowley’s chest slowly with a teasing touch Crowley could sense more than feel. They stood there in silence for a moment, as the wind continued to unleash outside.

“You are beautiful, my dear,” whispered Aziraphale.

Crowley couldn’t help it. He whined as his hips bucked slightly, wishing to be nearer to Aziraphale, wanting more, always more.

Aziraphale looked into his eyes again and let the dagger slip from his hand. While it slowly fell as if the world had decided to slow down, words came to Crowley’s mind then: _when the whirl wynd whirls, reach oute one to another._

When the dagger landed on the ground with a metallic sound, they did so.

Crowley’s lips met Aziraphale’s, finally tasting him with a too-long repressed moan, be it his or Aziraphale’s. Crowley’s hands were suddenly grabbing Aziraphale’s shirt, desperate, pulling him impossibly close as Aziraphale tugged his lower lip between his. Crowley’s kiss was needy but he was met with equal emotion as Aziraphale’s hands were tangled in his hair. 

Crowley’s hips bucked again when Aziraphale’s tongue slipped inside his parted lips and _oh,_ Aziraphale had now put a thigh, one of those _wonderful_ thighs between Crowley’s legs, opening him and giving him the friction he sought. And Crowley took his chance and picked up a rhythm against Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale pulled away and Crowley whined, but now his lips were on Crowley’s neck, kissing him where the sword had caressed before, one of his hands sneaking inside his open shirt.

Aziraphale put his lips against his ears and whispered. “Is this alright?”

Crowley panted as he searched for words. “Ngk — ah, yes, angel, _please.”_

Aziraphale chuckled. “Impatient, are we?”

Crowley’s face burned, but with a hand he caressed Aziraphale’s pressing erection through his trousers, teasing him. “I am obviously not the only one.”

Aziraphale licked his earlobe and Crowley moaned again. “We’ll see.”

Aziraphale continued to kiss and lick Crowley’s neck meticulously as Crowley let his hands wander all over Aziraphale’s body. He felt that plump waist, his back, his arms; he was fascinated to finally be able to touch him instead of just admire him from afar and wonder. There was no painting, no talent of his that could match the way Aziraphale felt against him.

Aziraphale planted kisses on Crowley’s chest, but Crowley whined again.

“No, angel, let me touch you. I want to take care of you.”

Aziraphale stared at him, bewildered, and stood up again to kiss him until Crowley felt his toes curl. 

“I want to take care of you _first.”_

Crowley shivered at Aziraphale’s tone. His manicured hand rested on Crowley’s hip in the same way he had when he had corrected Crowley’s posture the last time. But now, his fingers went behind Crowley’s shirt, slowly caressing his hip bone and grabbing the hem of his trousers and pulling south, following the curve downwards and letting his fingers brush his skin as he approached Crowley’s erection.

Aziraphale put his forehead against Crowley’s, his eyes wide and pleading. “Can I?”

“ _Yes.”_

Aziraphale unbuttoned his trousers until he was able to slip his hand inside. The moment his fingers curled around Crowley’s length they both sighed. Aziraphale, with his other hand, grabbed one of Crowley’s legs and put it around his hip, inviting Crowley to hold on in that way, giving him better access.

Aziraphale started to move his hand, slowly caressing the tip of his cock, experimentally, as he observed Crowley. Crowley moved his hips again, wanting more, and Aziraphale _giggled_ as he did so, going up and down. He caressed the tip with his thumb and Crowley moaned again.

“You are wonderful, Crowley, holding on to me so well. You were a work of art back then, with your shirt open as you did what I taught you, showing me your chest and neck. You were quite a distraction and you used it against me, you wily snake.”

Aziraphale sped up as he talked, making a motion with his wrist that was making Crowley go too quick closer to the edge. His eyes fluttered, trying to close, but he fought against it, as he wanted to be able to admire the sight of Aziraphale against him.

Aziraphale’s lips were slightly parted and his hair was everywhere — had Crowley done that? — as he watched Crowley come undone for him. Crowley’s hand caressed his lips, enthralled by Aziraphale, his heart thundering and overcome by affection.

“Angel…”

Aziraphale moaned as if he was the one being touched, and tightened his grip just so; Crowley came as Aziraphale carried him through his orgasm, to then be kissed by him again.

Aziraphale held him against him, his mouth against his neck as Crowley hugged him back, both breathing heavily. Aziraphale slowly let Crowley down to the ground; he could feel Aziraphale’s erection against his hip.

An idea occurred to Crowley. He moved his head towards Aziraphale’s ear, delighting in the fluster it provoked.

“Lie on the ground for me, angel.”

===

Aziraphale felt drunk with Crowley. He still had his slender body pressing against his and he didn’t want to move.

What a sight Crowley was, how dear to him, as he had watched him duel against Aziraphale and tried his best to impress him, unaware he already had. The desire of making Crowley ache for him had been too strong and he had ended up losing to temptation as they duelled. 

And when Crowley had fallen in front of him, his neck uncovered and his eyes wild as Aziraphale held him in his mercy, it had broken something free in him. He had noticed Crowley’s bulge and he recklessly manifested his desires through his sword. How Crowley had stayed there as Aziraphale experimented, following the shape of him with his blade and devouring him with his eyes, uncovering that freckled chest of his, admiring the pale red hair and how he moved as he tried to breathe, agitated because of _Aziraphale._ He had been possessive and bold until a strike of fear came back to him again — it was too much, too fast, too consuming.

Aziraphale had gone back to the lessons despite the obvious confusion in Crowley’s face. The painter didn’t close his shirt and Aziraphale breathed in some self-control, remembering who they were and where. 

And then Crowley had grinned when he got Aziraphale by surprise, distracted as he was. The delighted, triumphant expression of his, with those magnificent eyes uncovered — Aziraphale could never get tired of them — and Aziraphale’s bird sang and sang, demanding, _wanting,_ and Aziraphale said yes again. _Yes_ to this, whatever it was, because Crowley was so dear, so cherished, and Aziraphale couldn’t control it anymore. 

_It is alright to want, to desire, remember?_

So Aziraphale had let himself be transported by the wave that pushed him against Crowley, as inevitable as a natural phenomenon. He had read the same desire as his own in Crowley’s eyes against the wall, how his lips parted and met his as the metal sound against the ground unfroze him. And Crowley had accepted him, had welcomed it all as he gave Aziraphale the same want, the same hunger, touching him with those clever fingers of his and making him shudder with his tongue. Crowley had said _yes,_ had moaned and climaxed for him, had said _angel_ in a way that would be engraved in his mind forever.

— _and red were his lips after being kissed-_

“Lie on the ground for me, angel.”

Aziraphale shuddered at Crowley’s voice, so close to his ear as the time he had corrected his pose while modelling. Aziraphale turned his head a bit to meet Crowley’s eyes and smiled at how undone he looked.

First, he had to do something. He licked his fingers clean as Crowley shuddered at the sight, his lips parting in a sigh as Aziraphale moaned, making a show on purpose. 

Eventually, he made the motion to lie down right there, but Crowley stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“No, here. Please, angel.”

Crowley slowly pushed him towards the centre of the room and, after shooting a glance at the windows, gently pushed down Aziraphale until he sat on the floor. Crowley knelt in front of him, his eyes on Aziraphale’s erection as he licked his lips. 

“Is it alright if I…?”

“Go on, my dear.” 

Crowley visibly shuddered at Aziraphale’s voice as he crawled towards him in the space between Aziraphale’s legs, his red hair falling at both sides of his face, dishevelled. His fingers unfastened Aziraphale’s buttons while Aziraphale gazed at him, supported by his elbows. 

Crowley freed his cock and sighed, his pupils wide and lips slightly parted. Aziraphale moaned as he felt Crowley’s warm breath, sensitive as he was after waiting for so long. Crowley wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock, taking his time to admire Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale was flustered, exposed as he was, but his hips twitched at the lack of physical contact.

“Crowley…”

Crowley grinned. “Impatient, are we?”

Aziraphale pouted as Crowley laughed. 

“I am nothing of the sort.”

“Of course you are, love.”

Before Aziraphale could say anything else, Crowley licked him from the base to the tip in one single motion while arching his back. Aziraphale moaned, feeling Crowley sucking on the precum. 

Crowley pulled away and licked his lips with a wicked grin. “Is this allowed in your salle, my lord, or does it go against the rules?”

Aziraphale glared at him and put a hand in Crowley’s hair, his nails softly scratching his scalp, making Crowley shudder. 

“I will allow it for today,” Aziraphale said, putting on his most serious of voices as he wiggled his shoulders, satisfied.

Crowley laughed. “You’re a bastard.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow and Crowley went down on him again, kissing the tip and letting his tongue slip out again, circling Aziraphale. He repeated the same motion as before, licking from the base to the tip as Aziraphale moaned again, enjoying the sensation of Crowley’s hot tongue and lips against him. Crowley, with his hand still on the base, began to move up and down as he took Aziraphale inside of his mouth.

Aziraphale bucked his hips as he threw his head backwards, his fingers tightening around Crowley’s hair; Crowley hummed around him and Aziraphale saw sparkles behind his eyelids. It was obscene, the way Crowley moved his head and tongue, his hand following the same rhythm. His lips were red and wet as he slurped, grinning when Aziraphale moaned. With his free hand, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s thigh and massaged it, caressing the length of it. Then, he put his hand on Aziraphale’s, still in his hair, and squeezed it.

Aziraphale understood. He started to direct Crowley’s movements experimentally, thrusting his hips just so, careful as not to gag Crowley too much. Crowley hummed again and Aziraphale came, his legs shaking slightly as Crowley took it all in. 

Crowley pulled his cock out of his mouth, a strand of saliva hanging from his lips as he breathed. Aziraphale caressed him, his hand going from his hair to his cheek, passing a thumb on Crowley’s cheekbone. 

“My dear,” was all Aziraphale could murmur.

Crowley sat up and Aziraphale did the same, with his legs still bent at Crowley’s sides. They stared at each other in silence, what just happened hanging in the air between them as they rearranged their clothes. 

Before Aziraphale could speak, Crowley’s face crumpled in on itself, his golden eyes desperate. 

“Aziraphale, I don’t know what came over me. I am so sorry.”

Aziraphale, horrified, watched as tears fell from Crowley’s eyes as the artist stood up and took two steps back. Aziraphale stood up too, scanning Crowley’s face as he tried to understand what was wrong. Had he misread the whole situation? But Crowley had consented; was he regretting it now? 

“Crowley, are you alright?”

Crowley shook his head, confused. “I shouldn’t have done that to you. This is not how it was supposed to… I am so sorry, Aziraphale.” 

Crowley’s voice crumbled and as he suddenly turned his back and ran away. 

Aziraphale froze for a second, but he willed himself to move, to run after him, going outside to face the wind as he followed Crowley. Aziraphale wouldn’t let the past incidents happen again. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes, not anymore, not after this. 

Aziraphale would find Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has one of my favourite scenes in the entire fic (yes, the fencing one) and it's the reason why I came up with the entire fencing plot. For the fencing smut. I promised homoerotic fencing, didn't I? I hope I delivered XD  
> I know how this chapter ends, I'M SORRY, but hey things are looking better! It's not like last time. I promise.  
> Chapter title from City of Delusion by Muse.  
> I used these videos for the fencing scenes: [video 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTD3nG04xn8), [video 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-hCLG8xKJk) and [video 3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntsJ3xpd3yY&t=59s)


	15. I love you as if all hearts were a mirror of mine

Aziraphale ran. His muscles whined, protesting at how much he was forcing them after duelling. He didn’t pay attention to them and fought the traitorous wind until he reached the entrance of the house.

The door was open and Aziraphale walked inside, looking around for Crowley with his eyes wide. He was panicking and filled with concern for Crowley — had he been so blind? What had he overlooked? 

He was nowhere to be found. Aziraphale realized that, perhaps, Crowley simply didn’t want to talk to him. That realization froze him in place, in the middle of the entrance; if such was the case, Aziraphale would respect it until Crowley was ready to talk. Aziraphale was open to it this time, since the start, as he didn’t want to go through days without talking to each other again. It didn’t matter what had just happened; they were friends, first and foremost.

Tracy stepped in from the kitchen at that moment, her face transforming into pure worry when she saw Aziraphale’s expression.

“Did something happen?”

Aziraphale shook his head, unable to come up with words to explain the situation. At that moment, Aziraphale heard steps above him. When he turned around, he found Crowley there, up the stairs, looking at him. He was the embodiment of despair, his hair messed up and his shirt out of his trousers, opening and closing his hands by his sides.

“Aziraphale,” he breathed.

Aziraphale stood there, staring back at him as he waited for a verdict, a sign, something. His heart ached and the bird there implored mercy. 

_Don’t tell me it’s over before it began. Whatever this is I’ll take it, all of it, don’t leave me like this. Don’t be hurt because of me, please don’t._

“Could we talk?”

Aziraphale nodded, relieved. He shot a glance at Tracy, who understood perfectly; she nodded and walked away. Aziraphale knew she would ensure their privacy.

“Right here?”

Crowley shook his head weakly. “No, better if we go to my room, I think.”

Aziraphale swallowed and walked towards the stairs as Crowley went to his room. Once inside, Aziraphale closed the door and turned around. Crowley was sitting on the bed, facing the window and his back to Aziraphale — Crowley’s shoulders were down, lifeless. Aziraphale ached to touch him and reassure him, but he didn’t dare; instead, he sat on the other side of the bed, fumbling his hands on his lap. Their backs were facing each other, and Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s face, but he wanted to give him some room for himself.

Aziraphale breathed, channelling all the bravery he could muster.

“Are you alright?”

Crowley’s voice was broken when he spoke. “I honestly don’t know how to answer that question.”

Aziraphale inhaled shakily. “Do you think what we just did was a mistake, then?”

“No.”

Aziraphale exhaled, relief washing over him. That was something.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, and I won’t force you if you don’t want to talk about it now, but I just wanted to tell you that I am also quite overwhelmed. I was trying very hard to control myself, and I’m afraid I did a rather poor job.”

Aziraphale chuckled dryly.

The bed shifted under Crowley’s movements, but Aziraphale didn’t dare to turn his head around. Fear, like black ink, was filling him inside, flowing with his blood; he had messed things up. It was alright to want and desire, yes; but he couldn’t precisely forget his responsibilities just like that. He ought to be careful and not unleash every dirty secret inside his soul on the first opportunity that arose.

“You were what?”

Aziraphale frowned, his eyes looking at his hands. Those hands full of calluses of holding swords; the hands of a lord, of what he had to do. 

“I was trying to control myself. There are so many things at stake here, and you simply wanted to be friends, nothing more. I’m your client, on top of that. I understand it, I really do — I mean, look at what an enormous mess that I’m in. I know you said you wanted to still be friends despite everything, but this is a whole different thing. You don’t possibly want to be tangled in this.”

“What? Angel, look at me, please.”

Aziraphale turned around and was surprised to see Crowley without his glasses — with everything, they forgot them at the salle. His eyes were red around the edges and puffy from crying. Aziraphale’s heart shattered — it was all his fault. He had done precisely what he had wanted to avoid: to hurt Crowley. Before Crowley could say anything else, tears began to fall from Aziraphale’s face.

“And here I am, complaining again and you were the one getting hurt. You probably only wanted to please me, a lord and a client. Did you feel forced? Oh, Crowley, I am so sorry.”

“No, no, angel! It’s not that. I wanted to, Aziraphale. Trust me, you didn’t force me.”

Aziraphale blinked several times, chasing the tears away. “Then what’s wrong?”

Crowley grimaced. “I fucked up, is what happened. This is not how I wanted to do things, how you deserved for it to happen. I…”

Crowley groaned, frustrated, as he passed a hand through his face. “Look. I’m a bad friend. I’m trying to process that perhaps you wanted something else now because I was utterly convinced you just wanted to be my friend, and nothing more than that. But I wanted to tell you everything, properly, following each step and all. And I just… I just jumped into my wishes without thinking.”

Tears began to fall from Crowley too, tears of rage and frustration that Aziraphale was not completely understanding. 

“Crowley, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Steps? To do _what_ properly?”

“To _court_ you, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. What? Crowley’s face was completely red now as he looked at the bed between them, playing with the blanket with one hand.

Aziraphale’s mind went haywire. 

“To… court me? Why?”

Crowley’s face reddened even more if that was possible, but he said nothing. Something struck Aziraphale.

“Look, Crowley, I know that you’re aware I don’t want to get married, but I’m not sure how courting me would help that situation at all.”

Crowley frowned, confused. A tear fell from his chin to his hand, and he looked at it as if he didn’t understand what was doing there.

“Wait, let me.” 

Aziraphale took his handkerchief out of his pocket and, after Crowley nodded, began to dry his face softly. Suddenly, something fell in the space between them, and its colour attracted their attention.

It was the tulip.

Aziraphale felt his face burn, but before he could pick it up, Crowley took it and stared at it, his mouth slightly open as recognition shone in his eyes.

“Is this… my tulip?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale didn’t dare look at him, utterly embarrassed.

“And you kept it all this time in your pocket, in that ugly tartan thing?” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale huffed. “Tartan is stylish. And yes.”

“But angel, it’s all withered and ugly now. Why didn’t you throw it away? I could give you fresher flowers that match you better.”

Aziraphale smiled, softly, tilting his head as he looked at Crowley again. “How could I? It was a gift from you. Of course I kept it.”

Crowley’s face softened, the lines on the sides of his eyes freed from tension. His eyes went humid again as Aziraphale watched, concern coming back again. Crowley put the flower on the bed again and reached for the pocket on his shirt, taking something out of it. It was a black handkerchief. When Crowley unfolded it, he revealed what appeared to be a red drop. He took it between two fingers and left it next to the tulip.

Aziraphale understood. “A petal?”

He looked at Crowley, bewildered, and Crowley tilted his head as his eyes studied Aziraphale’s face, something soft and fragile in his expression.

“Aziraphale, I’m in love with you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “What?”

Crowley chuckled. “I love you, you angelic bastard. That’s why I wanted to court you and do things properly. Because you deserve it.”

Aziraphale was dreaming. He had to be. Crowley diverted his attention to the tulip, his face matching its colour. 

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s and, leaning forward, kissed Crowley delicately, his other hand caressing his chin as their eyes fluttered close. 

At that moment, the bird in Aziraphale’s chest sang one last time and flew away, finally free, the fluttering of its wings matching the thumping of Crowley’s heart against his.

===

They pulled apart and Crowley was sure he was shaking. He had done it, he had confessed his feelings for Aziraphale, blurting them out impulsively. When he saw Aziraphale looking at the tulip, that stupid flower Crowley had stolen for him, that Aziraphale had _kept_ against his chest as if it was a treasure, he hadn’t been able to contain himself. It was as if Aziraphale had been staring at Crowley’s own heart, laying between them, open — it was already Aziraphale’s, and that realization liberated the words in him.

Aziraphale, his face wet with tears, his hair still dishevelled by what they had done earlier, worried and nice, _so nice_ as he was concerned for Crowley thinking he had hurt him. And how wrong he was; Crowley wondered how someone so intelligent could be so stupid. Weren’t his intentions obvious enough already?

“I can’t believe you thought I was doing this to cancel your wedding. I don’t want you to marry, by the way, but I thought I was being so obvious.”

Aziraphale shook his head, still admiring Crowley as his thumb caressed Crowley’s cheek. Crowley wanted to stay right there, forever contemplating Aziraphale’s expression just after being confessed to.

“You weren’t, at all, being obvious. Not to me at least.”

“Well, just so you know, I loved everything we did back in the salle. Every single thing.” Crowley wriggled his eyebrows just to see Aziraphale smile, and he turned out victorious.

“Oh, I’m sure you did.”

“Hm.” Crowley kissed Aziraphale, erasing that smug face off him as his fingers wandered in that impossibly soft hair. Crowley went to leave a trace of kisses along Aziraphale’s neck, but Aziraphale pulled apart, softly, and Crowley whined in protest.

“You are so silly, my dear.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

Aziraphale chuckled and then wiggled his shoulders. “I don’t need courting. Haven’t we talked about romantic gestures before? You know where I stand with this. There is nothing like honesty in the right moment.”

Crowley closed his eyes for a second. Oh. Yes. He was indeed a bit silly. Perhaps he ought to listen a bit more. 

Aziraphale brought Crowley’s hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle, leaving Crowley shaking like a leaf.

“And I love you too.”

Crowley inspected Aziraphale’s expression in disbelief and found that strange expression he could never decipher. It was there, fluttering in his eyes as a slow and gentle fire; it was on his lips, broadly smiling at him and in the way he was looking at Crowley. It made his heart weak at the edges as he finally understood what it was.

It was love.

Aziraphale chuckled at his face and kissed his cheeks, one after the other, with his lips gently brushing Crowley’s. Then he kissed his eyelids adoringly and rested his forehead against his, letting themselves breathe in each other’s presence.

“As much as I love being here with you, I would like to have a moment to clean myself, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley laughed. “It really doesn’t surprise me that you would break a moment like this to say that. What does surprise me is that I was expecting you to say you’re feeling peckish.”

Aziraphale visibly considered this as Crowley grinned, waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

“I do feel peckish if I’m being honest.”

Crowley played with the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt, which was a bit ruffled and his angel couldn’t have that. “What if we both go and get changed, and then meet at the library to eat something there? We could open up one of those elegant wine bottles of yours.”

Aziraphale’s eyes shone with interest, perking at that. “You are such a tempter.”

“But I know for sure that I succeeded in my temptation, isn’t that right?”

Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders and Crowley melted. “Perhaps.”

===

Aziraphale stared at the display in front of him. Crowley, after changing into what had to be his tighter clothes, with his black shirt unfastened in the first two buttons, showing just the patch of skin necessary to be tempting without it being too much. Crowley _was_ an excellent tempter, sitting with his ankle resting on a knee so his legs were open, inviting, as Aziraphale sipped his wine while sitting on an armchair.

He didn’t know why he had decided to sit a bit far away from Crowley. Everything that had happened was turning around in his head, overwhelming him — he needed a bit of space as he enjoyed Crowley’s presence, taking his time to taste this new situation they got themselves in. 

Aziraphale loved Crowley. What a simple way to put something that ran so deep, that had taken root into his soul when he hadn’t been paying attention. He had surprised himself the moment he had admitted it, as he had been able to put into words something that felt complex and vast, _ineffable._

He was filled with joy. Aziraphale loved and was loved in return, but there was another emotion there. It pained him, somehow, a feeling deep in his gut — a beautiful kind of pain, originating in wanting something with this intensity, from been known and knowing, to desire to be with Crowley while acknowledging it couldn’t be possible. 

Because it couldn’t happen. No matter if he wanted to. It wasn’t something he could simply admit out loud — there was so much at stake, so much to care about. Saying it would feel like a curse, casting it on both of them. 

And it hurt. It hurt so much, as the feeling of love surrounded him as Aziraphale observed the ridiculous man in front of him, grinning and talking and enjoying Aziraphale’s presence. It was wonderful, it was incredible, and it was like taking a breath before drowning.

However, now wasn’t the time to reflect on it. Aziraphale filed the thought away in his mind, as he was tired of living in every other moment but this one. It would all come crashing around them, eventually, and they would have to deal with it; but they could figure it out together, even if it was only to say goodbye. 

“What amazes me, angel, is how much stamina you have. Look at you, you’re perfectly fine, after duelling against me and then using some other types of swords.” Crowley wriggled his eyebrows and Aziraphale glared at him.

“I don’t have that much stamina.”

“You do. I’m totally beaten and tired, and I feel like my muscles are going to hurt forever.”

“You’re simply weaker than I am, my dear.”

Crowley gasped. “You did _not_ just say that. I nearly beat you that one time with the dagger, and we both know it.”

Aziraphale hid his smile with his glass. “I was training you, not duelling with you. I was not ready for you to attack me seriously. Do I need to remind you what happened then?”

“Ngk. But you said fighting with daggers isn’t precisely fair.”

“Which I showed you just then, Anthony.”

Crowley’s ears turned red — teasing him was way too enjoyable. 

“Either way, my brother had much more stamina than me. I used to get tired before most people in the fencing school.”

Crowley’s face shifted then, some of his flirtatious attitude slipping away. Aziraphale frowned and waited.

“I have to tell you something.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Alright.”

“I didn’t know when to tell you, because you’ve been so stressed and worried about everything, and I wanted you to relax and be happy. I guess I didn’t succeed in that, with my breakdown earlier.” Crowley made himself tiny on his seat as he spoke.

“Don’t worry, Crowley, you don’t need to tell me everything as soon as it happens. You deserve your privacy. Also, don’t trouble yourself with my well-being, I can manage it myself, my dear.”

“But it does concern your well-being! Perhaps it’s all a lie, but everything is so strange I can’t completely discard the option, you know? I really should’ve told you sooner.”

Aziraphale smiled reassuringly and Crowley let his shoulders drop, relaxing a bit.

“I won’t be angry at it, I promise. You know I’m not like that.”

Crowley’s face softened. “No, you’re not.”

“And even if it is nothing, if talking about it makes you feel better then it’s worth it. Don’t silence things that worry you just because you think I don’t want to talk about serious or upsetting matters.”

Crowley nodded. “Alright. So, one day, I went to the pub in town.” 

“Oh, yes. The Demon’s something, right?”

“ _The Demon’s Lair._ A very dirty and awful place, if you ask me.”

“Newt has mentioned it before. I have never been there myself, as it’s not really my scene.”

Crowley grinned. “No, I really can’t imagine you there. Well, the thing is, the owner’s brother told me some things about your family.”

Aziraphale sighed, swaying the remaining wine in his glass. “That doesn’t surprise me. I already knew people liked to spread rumours about us, and we do give them reasons to.”

“He specifically talked about your brother’s death. He used to work here for some time.”

Aziraphale nodded. “It could be. I was never too invested in who was employed here; I only got to know Tracy more, and eventually Newt. Later on, Gabriel fired them all, and it wouldn’t be surprising for them to stay around.”

“And it’s not a shock he would be spreading rumours about your family.”

“What is his name?”

“Hastur.”

Aziraphale thought for a moment but then shook his head. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It’s fine, angel. The thing is, he advised me to be wary of you and dropped hints that Lord Gabriel’s death wasn’t a suicide. I think he was telling me he was murdered.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them, Crowley had his two feet on the ground and was leaning over him, concern painted on his face as he waited.

“Are you alright, angel?”

“Yes, my dear. Honestly, the option did cross my mind. How couldn’t it not? All the matters going on with my father made the whole situation suspicious. But then again, who would’ve wanted to kill him? I suppose people in town think it must have been me.”

“I don’t care what they think. I know for a fact you didn’t.”

Aziraphale’s heart grew wider. “Thank you, my dear. For trusting me.”

Crowley leaned back, flustered. “Of course. What I worry about is, what if someone really murdered him? You would be in danger.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know that, trust me. But it doesn’t mean I’m happy to see you in a situation where you could potentially get murdered. Do you have any idea of who could want to murder him?”

Aziraphale considered this. It was hard to think of his brother as someone to be murdered, disposed of, and think of motives for his death. It didn’t matter how bad Gabriel had treated him during his life; they were still talking about a human being.

“I can only think of the people we are indebted to. I don’t think anyone from town, let alone Tracy, Newt or my mother did it. They had no motive for it, and the only suspicious thing was my father’s business.”

“That’s what I thought too. I’m not sure it makes sense, though.”

“I agree. Why kill the person who was going to pay the debt with the marriage? They depended on Gabriel, _needed_ him alive.”

“Hm.” Crowley stared at the ceiling and Aziraphale admired the lines of his neck, the one he had kissed that very same day. 

What a way to get distracted. A tempter, even if unconsciously. Aziraphale tried to reconnect with the subject at hand.

“Perhaps it was suicide and that Mr Hastur simply tried to spread more rumours with the newcomer. His intentions could be to simply create problems in this house where he was fired, as he probably already knows some of the situation here. It’s the perfect occasion to use it against us.”

Crowley hummed, not entirely convinced. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he added, muttering.

What to do with all these emotions, shining and pouring light in the darkness of this library? How could a man this slender and lean contain all of what Aziraphale felt? 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything and simply continued to admire Crowley. It was all so new, still, to be able to express himself or to look at him without any mask or pretension as Crowley now _knew._ And Aziraphale knew, in turn. 

Crowley let his head roll to his shoulder to look at the table separating them. 

“You didn’t eat your cake.”

Oh, right. Aziraphale was surprised — had he been this distracted?

“Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me. Would you hand it over to me, please?”

Crowley stood up in that strange manner, his limbs flying around until he acquired some sort of form that indicated he was a human walking, or more specifically sauntering, towards the cake. He put a piece on a plate with a fork and walked towards Aziraphale to hand it over. 

Aziraphale had decided that the time for space between was over as he stared at the man in front of him. 

He put the glass of wine on the ground, at his side, and with pleading eyes patted his lap. Crowley’s eyes widened at the gesture as he sucked a breath. He sat on Aziraphale’s lap eagerly, one leg hanging on each side of Aziraphale’s lap as they faced each other.

Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s waist. “Is this alright?”

“Always.” Crowley’s voice was a bit raw already and Aziraphale couldn’t help but giggle.

He tilted his head and licked his lips, relishing on Crowley’s weight on him.

“Would you feed me, please?”

A sound came from Crowley but he promptly cleared his throat in a poor attempt at masking it. Crowley swallowed and cut a piece of cake with the fork, picked it up and approached it to Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s to hold him still as he took in the piece of cake and licked the fork clean. He moaned, thoroughly enjoying the cake and the way he felt Crowley shiver, lips slightly parted.

Aziraphale let go of him and watched as Crowley cut another piece and lift it to his mouth again. Aziraphale repeated the motion, letting out a too obscene moan on purpose just to see Crowley twitch in place. His back arched to be nearer Aziraphale.

Aziraphale could play the tempting game, too.

“It really is delicious.”

Crowley hummed, his face aflame as he cut another piece, but distracted as he was, he smudged his thumb.

“Oh, let me.”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his and put the fork back on the plate and the plate on the ground. He returned his attention to Crowley, lifting the thumb to his mouth to lick it.

His eyes were set on Crowley as he passed his tongue following the thumb’s curve, finally giving those distracting fingers the attention they deserved. Aziraphale hummed, the tip of Crowley’s thumb on his lips the way it had been haunting his imagination.

Fluttering his eyelashes, he let the thumb slip inside and he scraped his teeth on the tip. Crowley’s legs around him tightened as Crowley let out another whine. Aziraphale’s hand, which had been resting on Crowley’s hip, moved to his leg, caressing down his thigh. The movement made Crowley’s hips move forward, making them even closer. Aziraphale could feel Crowley growing hard against him.

Aziraphale took his thumb out of his mouth and kissed Crowley’s palm, followed by his wrist. Crowley was hypnotized, watching him. Aziraphale was adoring it. He wondered how many times he could make Crowley hard and come for him in a day, how much his body could take it. 

It was obvious he could go for another round.

“Thank you, my dear, it tasted amazing.”

Crowley spluttered some consonants and Aziraphale laughed. Crowley pouted and his eyes shone maliciously.

Oh my.

“You have something there, angel.”

Crowley leaned forward, striking like a snake. Their chests and hips met, and Crowley licked one corner of Aziraphale’s mouth as he rocked into him — Aziraphale moaned at the sudden friction. Crowley’s hair tickled on the side of his face as he moved and tugged at Aziraphale’s earlobe. Aziraphale’s hands grabbed Crowley’s arse, pushing him forward.

“You’re killing me, angel,” Crowley said near his ear.

Aziraphale chuckled. “I could say the same.”

Crowley kissed him on the lips and ran his hands on Aziraphale’s chest, fighting the buttons of his collar to open. They finally did, and Crowley began to leave a trail of kisses from his chin to his neck and collarbone, as his hand played with one of Aziraphale’s nipples. Aziraphale’s fingers curled tighter around Crowley’s hips.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinked, looking at Crowley. “This.”

Crowley bit him on the neck, eliciting another moan from him. “I bet you had something in mind when you asked me to sit on your lap. Lovely lap, by the way.”

Crowley rocked his hips once more, as to show how much he liked it. It was very demonstrative.

“I simply wanted you closer. And to tease you a bit.”

Aziraphale’s hands lifted to the back of Crowley’s neck and slowly ran down again, taking their time to feel every muscle as Crowley arched to the touch like a cat. His eyes were locked with Aziraphale’s, pupils wide. 

“You’re a pretty good tease.”

“You tempted me to it, what can I say.”

Crowley’s hands were on his belly now, caressing it while humming. “You are so perfect, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale brought Crowley closer to kiss him with his hand on his hair; he was tender, brushing Crowley’s lips softly with his own, savouring the taste of wine he found there. 

Crowley tugged at the buttons of his trousers as he deepened the kiss, nipping Aziraphale’s lower lip. He freed Aziraphale’s cock and started to run his fingers along it, playfully, teasing Aziraphale.

“Crowley…”

Crowley grinned and moved his hips, rocking his bulge against Aziraphale’s cock. Aziraphale grunted, impatient, and moved his hands to Crowley’s trousers until their erections touched each other. Crowley wrapped a hand around the heads as Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s arse again, moving him to make Crowley fuck his hand as he generated friction with Aziraphale’s cock. Crowley’s other hand rested on the armchair’s back, near Aziraphale’s head, to balance him better. Aziraphale’s hips started to move upwards as he squeezed Crowley’s arse.

His eyes watched Crowley’s face, how he tilted his head to one side as pleasure took him, moving in a serpentine way; his hair swayed with him and his eyes were partially closed. He leaned forward and rested his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder as their movements became frantic. Aziraphale was overwhelmed with the sensations of Crowley’s weight shifting on him, the wet sounds coming from between them; precome from both of them mixing together as Crowley’s fingers curled and twitched, their legs flapping as they met.

Crowley came on Aziraphale’s stomach and Aziraphale followed right after, holding a shuddering Crowley against him. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale said to his ear. Crowley kissed him and Aziraphale closed his eyes, abandoning himself to it, as the night slowly fell on them like a curtain.

_and I said to the star, “Consume me”._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote by Adonis  
> Last sentence by Virginia Woolf from The Waves


	16. My lover’s the sunlight

“I want to continue courting you.”

Aziraphale looked from where he had been preparing bread. Crowley fidgeted, covered with flour from tip to toe as he waited for a reaction. 

They were in the kitchen, early in the morning, preparing some bread. Gentle sunlight was illuminating them, bouncing off Aziraphale's curls as he worked. Tracy had gone out for a moment, and Crowley had decided this chance was as good as anyone. 

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow as he continued to mix the ingredients with his fingers.

“Why? There’s really no need.” Aziraphale blushed and Crowley noticed it even though he had some flour on his cheeks.

Crowley shrugged. “I want to. I had a list and everything, it would be a pity if I didn’t finish it.”

“Well, I can’t really say no to being pampered, can I? Only if you let me compensate you for it afterwards.” Aziraphale shot a glance at him that made Crowley’s blood warm a bit too much for the kitchen.

“All right, boys, let’s see if you destroyed my kitchen while I wasn’t here.”

Tracy stepped in with a face that meant business. Crowley sighed — no matter how good Aziraphale looked with his sleeves rolled up while he worked, Crowley still didn’t enjoy cooking. 

He’d rather feed Aziraphale. 

“Should I feel offended that you think I could destroy the kitchen?” Aziraphale said dramatically.

“Of course not, love. Crowley, on the other hand…” 

They both stared at Crowley, who shrugged, letting a cloud of flour detach from him.

“Wut?”

“Nothing, dear.” 

Crowley believed that two people in the kitchen were more than enough to prepare some bread. There was no need for him to stand there, wondering how he could help but being unable to. He refused to cook, but he wanted to be of use so Aziraphale would beam at him in that way of his. Alas, he was more of a nuisance than a helping hand in the kitchen. Crowley, accepting he couldn’t do much and after the others insisted, contented himself with sitting on a stool to admire Aziraphale. 

Crowley couldn’t hide his affection any longer. Aziraphale was well aware of his feelings for him, so why bother? He had the impression Tracy wasn’t precisely unaware of the situation either, judging by the glance she directed to him when she caught Crowley staring too pointedly at Aziraphale’s arms. 

Aziraphale smiled at him, in that sunshiny and soft way of his with sparkling eyes; Crowley tried very hard not to fall from his stool. Tracy, behind Aziraphale where couldn’t see her, winked at Crowley when she saw the display of light and Crowley’s subsequential accident. Yup, she definitely knew something. Crowley tried not to blush too hard at the fact that he was _that_ obvious.

Some days had passed, and with that, the fourth week ended and the fifth began. Crowley had been indescribably happy, floating on a cloud — every day, he met with Aziraphale and spent the day with him, now allowed to openly admire him instead of stealing glances now and again to paint a portrait he did not care about. Not only that; he could _touch_ Aziraphale, adore him as Aziraphale deserved to be adored. And he was welcomed to do so, as if Crowley was deserving of the love Aziraphale showed him. 

Everything was perfect, but Crowley was painfully aware all this was temporary. _Tick tock,_ as time passed, because their happiness had an execution date and it was quickly coming. He knew it, observing it in the way Aziraphale stared at him sometimes — as if he was trying to memorize and trap Crowley in his mind so he couldn’t go out of his life as he would inevitably do. Crowley did not want to, and he knew that Aziraphale probably didn’t either, but this whole situation wasn’t precisely about what either of them desired. 

It was going to happen, simple as that.

Two weeks. Two weeks and Crowley would need to pack his clothes, art tools and heart with his sad little self to a boat and a life with nowhere to land. He was a feather floating around in the wind. The only place he could truly call home was the space between Aziraphale’s arms, if he was being honest — he didn’t dare tell that to Aziraphale, as there was no meaning in hurting him further. 

Crowley had already run away from a home. He didn’t want to do so again — especially now, that he was happy, that he was loved and loved in return, and had met not only Aziraphale but Tracy and Newt. They were good people who deserved to be known and cherished, not forgotten forever. Crowley had never been a very social person, preferring the company of his paintings and art tools, so it was extraordinary to find three people that he not only tolerated but even _liked_ (including Newt) and in the same place, as if they had been waiting for him this entire time. 

As he contemplated Aziraphale, ridiculous and lovely _Aziraphale_ making a bit of a mess (but not quite as Crowley), he wondered where he should put all these feelings once everything ended. Perhaps he should simply drown them in the sea, where he had come from to this place. Seemed poetic and dramatic enough.

Crowley wanted to fight. He wanted to keep this alive, this fluttering emotion between them, and finally claim the fire in Aziraphale’s eyes for himself. He didn’t want Aziraphale to sacrifice himself and let it all consume him because, even now with everything out in the open between them, Crowley could _see_ it, he could sense Aziraphale’s pain in his heart. Crowley wanted him to break free, or else Aziraphale would go to Milan as nothing but ashes of his true self. Crowley knew there was another option, but he couldn’t say it out loud, because he could already foresee Aziraphale’s reaction to it. He was fairly sure Aziraphale had considered it too, but he had chosen to stay. That was the difference — Aziraphale _chose_ to follow what was expected of him. And who was Crowley to stop him?

He loved so he had to let go. There was no other solution for their story.

Either way, Crowley chose not to drown in it. Not right now, with the morning peeking out, with Aziraphale giggling as he found even more flour on his face, not with Tracy’s patience and motherly love cherishing them. Not when the day was light and warm and Crowley wished all days could be like this.

Crowley found himself collecting moments more than still images of Aziraphale. He didn’t need to memorize him now as Aziraphale consented to pose, so when he was filled with warmth, like now, he would let his mind take everything in and file the memory for later. 

He would continue to court Aziraphale and he was looking forward to it. Crowley’s only desire was to make Aziraphale feel loved, to the extent of Crowley’s capacity, before he couldn’t do it anymore. This was a tragedy, perhaps, but _Crowley_ was in it, and he preferred the funny ones, so he would make every second enjoyable instead of sad and dark. More than a promise to himself, it was a threat. Crowley was aware that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he made Aziraphale miserable. Deep down, there was a selfish reason for continuing his courting, but he didn’t desire to acknowledge it: perhaps, if he could make Aziraphale happy, the lord would choose to run away with him. Childish.

“I want to go swimming.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, making Crowley realize there was a bit of flour on top of his head. How had he managed that? “You’re right, it’s been some days since we did. I’m going to forget everything at this point.”

Crowley frowned. “I don’t think you can forget how to swim. It just becomes part of you, like… I don’t know…”

Aziraphale sighed as Crowley tried to remember. “Well, as I was saying, we can go for a swim after I finish here.”

Crowley nodded, not paying attention. He hated to forget things, as his mind was going to get caught on the problem and not leave it alone. Aziraphale huffed and a cloud of flour went straight to Crowley’s face, distracting him.

===

Later on, the sand was burning their feet as they walked on the beach to their usual spot for swimming. It was private and perfect for the purpose — not too deep or too shallow, the adequate depth for swimming without any risks. The wind wasn’t too strong either, so their clothes wouldn’t be sent flying.

Aziraphale began to unbutton his waistcoat, admiring the sea in front of him, as the man behind him stood in silence. He could sense Crowley’s brain engines still turning, and he wondered what was taking up more space there — the fact that he had to get undressed or that he was still thinking about whatever he had forgotten earlier. 

Aziraphale folded the waistcoat, leaving it on top of the towel he had extended before so it wouldn’t get unnecessarily dirty, and proceeded with his shirt. 

“Erm.”

Aziraphale tried not to smile. He had won the war in Crowley’s mind, judging by his flustered state. 

“Are you going to undress or are you waiting for me to do it for you?”

Crowley let out a train of consonants as Aziraphale innocently folded his shirt. 

“Ngk — I’ll do it myself.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley up and down, letting his intentions be known that he expected to undress Crowley in some other moment. 

Crowley let his gaze lower to the ground and began to undress as Aziraphale openly stared at him. Even though Crowley was a bit embarrassed, he managed to make a show out of it — he unbuttoned his waistcoat and let it slide from his shoulders slowly, then did the same with the shirt, playfully tugging the buttons. Crowley licked his lips and tilted his head, observing Aziraphale watching him.

“Perhaps I do need some help. You are good at unfastening my buttons, right angel?”

Aziraphale fluttered his eyelashes, not paying attention to the heat rising to his cheeks. “As much as you’re quite the temptation, I was only joking. We certainly don’t want anything to happen here, in public, my dear.”

Crowley clicked his tongue, disappointed. He took the conscious decision to pout. “But no one will see. It’s just undressing me, nothing more.”

Aziraphale considered it for a moment but sternly shook his head. “No. Be good and finish quickly so we can get into the water.”

Crowley grunted, disappointed, and left his clothes in a pile right there on the sand as a silent protest. Aziraphale decided not to point it out, as the sun was quite fetching on Crowley’s skin and it distracted him either way.

They stepped into the water and Aziraphale repressed a shiver; the summer was coming to an end and the water was making a point of it. Crowley whined — the poor boy wasn’t very good with cold temperatures — and stood behind Aziraphale, the distance between growing as Aziraphale continued to walk into the water.

He was quite sure there was a spot with a warmer current somewhere and he found it with the water already reaching mid-torso. 

“Crowley, come here, the water is much nicer.”

Crowley was a bit blue already, even if the water was only by his calves. “I am _not_ going there, Aziraphale, do you want me to freeze?”

“Come on, I promise it’s better here.”

“Even if it was, I’d have to _walk_ there, and the way there is not going to be through tropical waters.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips and Crowley sighed. They both knew there was no way Crowley would win that one. 

“Alright. Don’t cry if I get hypothermia and drown on my way there.”

Aziraphale _looked_ at Crowley. “I’ll make sure you warm-up, then.”

Crowley swallowed.

“Oh… but didn’t you say it was better not to do anything here, in public? Don’t tease me for nothing, angelic bastard.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Don’t worry, we can manage something. Come now, dear.”

Crowley grimaced as he finally walked towards Aziraphale, making dramatic sounds so it was clear to Aziraphale and whoever could be around that he was making great sacrifices. Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the display.

Crowley finally got where he was and yelped at the warm current’s sensation. 

“See? It’s nicer here.” 

Crowley mumbled in agreement and Aziraphale softened. What a silly snake Crowley was, sometimes, and how happy Aziraphale was with little moments like this. He wondered what it would be like, to have the opportunity of a field of time extending in front of him so he could enjoy these moments with Crowley as much as they wished to, with no ticking bomb to finalize everything. 

“Well, what do you want to do?” Crowley said, grinning. 

_Too many things to condense into two weeks, my dear._

“I think I’m not using my shoulders correctly because the rotation seems off sometimes.”

Crowley’s face fell as he realized this was becoming a swimming lesson. Aziraphale let his seriousness slip for a second as he turned around to show Crowley his back and began to roll his shoulders.

“See? It feels strange. What do you think? You’re certainly the expert.”

Aziraphale could practically sense Crowley’s ears turning red. 

“This spot in particular.” Aziraphale put his hand on his left shoulder, moving it. 

“Ngkakgk. I guess. Em.”

Crowley put an experimental hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, where he had pointed out, and massaged it. Aziraphale groaned at the sensation of Crowley’s fingers on him as they moved. Crowley continued and added his other hand to Aziraphale’s right shoulder, now basically giving Aziraphale a full massage. And _oh_ , what a massage. Crowley was surprisingly talented at it as he made circular motions, pressuring with his thumbs. Crowley’s hands wandered to his neck, caressing their profile, to then descend through his back, following every vertebra with soothing motions. Aziraphale hummed, pleased, as Crowley’s hands surrounded him and slipped to his sides, caressing his belly.

Crowley’s breath was on his neck as if he was about to kiss him but never doing so, simply letting his breath send shivers through Aziraphale’s skin as he imagined what Crowley could do next. He felt the ghost of his lips going up to his neck and then his ear.

Suddenly, a bigger wave than the others landed on them and left them shivering. Aziraphale turned around and laughed when he saw algae stuck in a perplexed Crowley’s hair. 

“Wait, dear, let me.”

He took it and threw it away absentmindedly, as his eyes were locked with Crowley’s. He wasn’t wearing his glasses this time, learning from past experiences and not risking losing them at sea. His eyes were shining under the sun, amazingly yellow and golden as if the sun itself had materialized in front of Aziraphale. Crowley’s hand caressed Aziraphale’s cheek, tenderly, going from his temple to his lips. Aziraphale was enthralled, barely aware of the waves swaying them in place. 

He thought of his first impression of Crowley — a hero coming from the sea to rescue him from the jaws of Hell. Aziraphale realized then that, perhaps, Crowley wasn’t going to save him from the situation he was in, but he was instead saving Aziraphale from himself. Giving him companionship and taking him away from the deep pit he had fallen into with laughter, clever remarks and trains of consonant sounds when he was embarrassed. Crowley couldn’t save him from the fire but instead made the flames bearable. 

Aziraphale loved him.

With that certainty in his heart, he briefly kissed Crowley’s hand and smiled in a way he knew Crowley would understand.

“As I told you before, we can’t precisely do something indecent here in the open. You may never know who could walk over here.”

Crowley gulped. “Yeah, better not.”

“They can’t see what we do _to each other_ , isn’t that right, my dear?”

“Ngk.”

“So I was thinking… I wonder how beautiful you would look if you took yourself apart for me, here, under the sun.”

Crowley was speechless. He let his hand fall from Aziraphale’s face to the water.

“Only if you’d like, of course.”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale let his eyes roam over Crowley, with his hair wet and falling on his shoulders, his freckles more visible now under the sun — he hummed in expectation.

Aziraphale stepped back and sighed when the water covered him a bit more. By now they had gotten used to its temperature, and the sun was helping — Aziraphale felt its warm caress on his neck, where Crowley had touched him a moment before. 

“Show me. Where would you touch yourself first?”

Crowley moaned softly at Aziraphale’s tone of voice. His hand went directly to his cock, but Aziraphale tutted. 

“Not so fast, my dear. How about you touch your chest a bit?”

Crowley tilted his head, showing his throat a bit more, and ran a hand over his chest as instructed, holding Aziraphale’s gaze — he let his fingers down to his stomach and up again in a teasing motion. Aziraphale watched and sighed, pleased. His cock was starting to get interested in Crowley’s smooth movements.

“Do you like your nipples teased?”

Crowley arched an eyebrow with a grin, and directed his hand to his right nipple, caressing it lightly — Aziraphale observed as Crowley’s chest rose and fell. He wondered how Crowley would react if Aziraphale was to replace his fingers with his tongue.

But not now. He wanted to see what Crowley would do himself. 

Crowley began to tease the other nipple, as softly as he had been with the other one, and let his other hand caress his neck. His movements were calculated and smooth as he studied Aziraphale’s reaction as if he was teasing Aziraphale instead of himself.

Aziraphale could see Crowley’s erection under the water thanks to its clarity. He was grateful for the warm water surrounding them and the facade of privacy it gave them. No one who could happen to look at them would see nothing but two men standing in the water talking. 

“Put your hand in that gorgeous hair of yours.”

Crowley breathed and let the hand on his neck go to his hair, separating his fingers to get a better hold of it. His hair shone under the sun as his fingers ran through it. 

Aziraphale moaned at the way Crowley’s eyes fluttered closed at the feel of his hand, practically feeling the texture of it under his fingers.

“And you, angel?” Crowley gasped. 

Aziraphale smiled. “Any requests?”

Crowley sucked a breath, not even pausing to think. “Lick your fingers.”

Oh. Crowley had also taken a liking to that, then. Aziraphale lifted a hand to his mouth and passed his index finger to his lower lip as Crowley’s hand tightened in his hair a bit, his golden eyes following Aziraphale’s movement. Crowley’s other hand went south, his fingers playing with the hem of his pants. 

“Angel…”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything and, instead, slipped his index finger inside his mouth, moaning at the salty taste the sea had left. Crowley swallowed as Aziraphale licked his finger, staring into Crowley’s eyes as he did so. 

He took his index out. 

“Touch yourself. But slowly.”

Crowley slipped his hand into his pants immediately and, listening to his request, slowly moved his hand, licking his lips. Aziraphale, meanwhile, put two fingers inside his mouth now, letting his tongue caress the edge of his nails. 

“Aziraphale, _please.”_

Aziraphale thought Crowley was requesting to be able to touch himself better, but his golden eyes were set on Aziraphale’s erection. Aziraphale couldn’t say no to a request made so beautifully. 

His hand slipped inside of his pants and wrapped around his erection. Crowley moaned, and Aziraphale saw by the way his arm muscles flexed he had tightened his hold on himself. 

Aziraphale slipped his fingers out of his mouth with a wet sound. 

“Tighten your hand on your hair, my love. Imagine it’s my hand in those gorgeous curls of yours. Yes, just like that. Feel your nails scraping slightly…”

Aziraphale quickened his motions and let his wet hand wander over his chest. He played with one of his nipples and sent his hand to his belly, grabbing it, mirroring Crowley some minutes before. Crowley whined, biting his lips wonderfully as he continued his movements.

“Imagine it’s me biting your lip and touching you. You can go faster now, Crowley.”

Crowley did so, and he moaned. His eyes were half-closed, watching Aziraphale.

“I— I want to touch you, angel. I want to feel you.”

“Later, love, later.”

Aziraphale curled his hand around the head of his cock as his breath became more irregular. The feeling underwater was strange, but not at all unpleasant — either way, what was more important was happening in front of him.

“Scratch your nails slightly across your chest. You like it a bit rough, don’t you, Crowley?”

Crowley moaned as he showed his neck. He was breathtaking, that way, as the water made his skin shine under the sun and the soft breeze moved his hair. Truly like a hero from a story or, more appropriately, Venus being born and taken apart by Aziraphale’s words, touching himself for Aziraphale. 

“Angel…” Crowley’s voice was urgent now.

“You are magnificent, Crowley, listening to me as you touch yourself just as I say. Show me now, Crowley, how you come for me.”

And Crowley did, gasping and muttering Aziraphale’s name. Aziraphale increased his pace as he watched until he came too. 

The water washed them as they breathed. Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and kissed it, grinning at him. “I’ll follow you anywhere if this is how you’ll compensate me.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Oh yes. Thank you, it’s been a rather lovely swimming lesson.”

Crowley laughed. Then his face turned serious and his eyes widened. 

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked, concerned.

“Ducks! Just like ducks!”

“Those are seagulls.”

“No, angel, you learn to swim and no matter if you go to land again, you never forget how to swim. Like ducks.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Let’s get out, I’m starting to get cold.”

===

They walked back to the shore, trying not to slip on the wet rocks as they climbed out. They sat down on Aziraphale’s extended towel, which was horribly tartan as most things Aziraphale owned. Crowley was sure there was no way in hell he wouldn’t associate everything tartan with Aziraphale from now on. Crowley shook his head — there was nothing stylish about some squares, but he was damned if he ever voiced his opinion.

They sat down and Crowley sighed. His muscles felt like they were melting under the sun. The sky was blessedly clear and the temperature was perfect — probably the last summer day before the rain began, but they had seized the day. Aziraphale, sitting down at his right, was fumbling with something that elicited a strong citrusy smell. Crowley looked at him and found him peeling an orange. 

Not surprising, though, knowing Aziraphale. He smiled softly at Aziraphale’s frown of concentration as he continued to peel it. A bit of juice fell to his fingers and he licked it absentmindedly. Crowley’s interest grew, even after what they did — it wasn’t as if he was going to get an erection going now, but he could at least enjoy the show.

Aziraphale put aside the orange’s skin and took one of the segments and lifted it to his mouth; he bit and hummed, pleased. With his mouth still full, he offered one of the segments to Crowley without saying a word. Crowley took it and ate it whole; the sweet juice filled his mouth, a very pleasing treat after the salt of the sea. 

They ate in silence with the quiet intimacy which sharing an orange gives, as Aziraphale offered him more orange segments. The sea sparkled under the sunlight in front of them, the quiet song of the waves comfortably filming the air as they shared the orange. 

Crowley noticed some juice on Aziraphale’s fingers and, knowing how it could make fingers sticky and uncomfortable, instead of taking the segment with his hand he chose to lean over and take it in his mouth directly from Aziraphale’s fingers; he wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s wrist as he licked his fingers clean. Aziraphale had a coquettish look on his face, clearly pleased. 

“Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley bowed dramatically as he munched. “My pleasure.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Always.” Crowley swallowed. “The way it makes people slightly uncomfortable is too amusing to stop.”

“You foul fiend. But now you got your chin dirty, see?”

Aziraphale trailed his fingers on Crowley’s face as Crowley leaned on the touch. Aziraphale bent over and licked the corners of Crowley’s mouth, making him gasp.

“Aziraphale! What if someone sees?”

“Oh, shush. There was no one, I checked.”

Crowley grinned. “How improper, my lord.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, giving him that ‘ _Oh how disappointed I am in you’_ gaze, which also implied amusement. Crowley had become quite an expert in making that particular look appear.

Suddenly, a movement caught Crowley’s attention. It was by Aziraphale’s side, where he had left the orange peels. He leaned back to see what was there, practically laying on the sand and realized, horrified, there was a crab there.

The crab was as big as his hand with a menacing look on its… face? Could that be named face? It was playing with the skin of the orange. Could crabs be trusted? Crowley had never encountered one. He knew all too well about seagulls and geese — the literal spawn of Hell — but he had never met a crab. It didn’t look particularly sympathetic. 

“Angel, don’t turn around and very, _very_ , slowly, get up.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

And, of course, he turned around. Crowley watched as Aziraphale and crab studied each other, assessing who could be the most menacing in a gazing contest.

The crab won. 

Aziraphale got up as the crab snapped its claws and Crowley followed him. They ran, slipping on the hot sand.

“Fuck angel, it’s following us!”

“What?”

They both turned around to see the crab following them — Crowley was sure he could see murder intent in those black eyes. The crab had, somehow, acquired a piece of shell and was swinging it around as if it was a knife. 

“Crowley! My blanket! Our clothes! We have to go back!”

“Hell no, angel, that crab is going to eat you for sure, you’ll even taste of orange. _Ange a là orange_. It even rhymes.”

Aziraphale tripped again and Crowley caught him just before the crab got to him, the shell getting too close to Aziraphale — he took Aziraphale’s hand in his and tugged to help him run. 

“Crowley.”

“What? Did it hurt you?”

“Your French is awful.”

Crowley growled. “Excuse me, _my lord_ , for my awful accent. Yours is not much more different.”

Aziraphale huffed and, even if Crowley couldn’t see his face, he sensed the eye-roll. 

“What if we get into the water?”

“Angel! That’s its bloody habitat! Wouldn’t it… swim, walk or jump towards us?”

“Jump? It couldn’t possibly jump.”

“It looks like it could murder us in our sleep, so I wouldn’t put jumping past it.”

Aziraphale turned around again and sighed in relief. “It’s not following us anymore.”

Crowley checked and, seeing the beach behind them crab-free, he decided to fall to the sand and breathe, his torso and forehead drenched in sweat.

“I am _not_ going to fence today.”

Aziraphale tutted, standing before him like an angel coming to give him the Lord’s message, pacing his breath too. “I can’t believe you’re tired after a little running.”

“You look tired yourself.”

Aziraphale pouted. “I am just worried about our belongings. We should go back.”

“That’s not a good idea. The crab is surely taking our clothes into the ocean to make a nest. Obviously leaving the horrendous tartan blanket behind.”

“Crabs don’t make nests. And tartan is stylish.”

“And they supposedly don’t eat humans, but here we are.”

“What else do we do, then? Do you have any other ideas? One, _single_ better idea?”

Crowley glared at him from the ground.

Two minutes later, they were walking back to the abandoned towel. Mercifully, no crab was there — it was as if he had evaporated into thin air. Perhaps he had gone to the sea to build a nest or whatever other activities a crab could be filling its time with.

As they grabbed their clothes and Aziraphale folded the towel, Crowley thought. 

“Do you think crabs have ears?”

“What is it with marine biology and you today? Do you want me to give you a book about it?”

“Nah. ‘m fine. The bloody cannibal doesn’t deserve me to study it.”

“They are not cannibals.”

“They certainly are, it tried to eat us!”

“It would be a cannibal if it ate other crabs.”

“Hrmph.”

They walked back to the house with Crowley still mumbling about crabs and ears. Aziraphale pointedly ignored him but occasionally rolled his eyes — Crowley could have sworn there was a smile on his face from time to time, though. 

Finally, they approached the house and found Newt waiting for them in front of it. Crowley frowned — bad news. Last time that happened it had been about a letter informing of Michael’s incoming visit. Effectively, Newt handed a letter to Aziraphale as soon as they arrived.

“Who is it from, Newt?” Aziraphale asked, not even wanting to look at the envelope.

“Your mother, I think.”

Aziraphale sucked a breath and looked at Crowley, his eyes wide with worry. 

Bad news indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crab scene was based on a true experience. Never trust crabs, especially if you have knives around.
> 
> Chapter title: Take Me To Church by Hozier.


	17. I still worship the flame

They sat in silence in the library after changing into clean clothes. The letter was on the table in front of them, still unopened — Crowley watched Aziraphale as he glared at the letter as if he was expecting it to spontaneously combust.

“Do you want me to read it for you?” asked Crowley.

“No, it’s fine. I just need a moment.”

Crowley nodded and waited. Eventually, Aziraphale breathed, steadying himself, and took the envelope with the opener. Crowley held his breath as Aziraphale read it once, and then twice — his frown deepening and his eyes becoming darker.

“Is your aunt alright?”

Aziraphale nodded as he began to read the letter for the third time. Crowley started to bounce his leg; the silence was worrying him deeply, and Aziraphale’s darkening expression wasn’t making it any better.

“What’s wrong, then?”

Aziraphale lifted his eyes from the paper to look at Crowley, but it was apparent his mind was elsewhere as he just sat there in silence, not seeing Crowley in front of him.

Finally, he came back; his eyes showed his usual spark, even if still a bit faded.

“I’ll just read it to you, I think.” Aziraphale’s voice was low as if he was trying not to wake someone up.

Crowley nodded and Aziraphale began to read.

“ _Dear Aziraphale, I hope this letter finds you well. We are all in good health; your aunt is getting better by the day._

_I’m writing to you after your cousin came back home quite earlier than I expected. We all thought she was going to stay with you for multiple days. I wonder what she may have done to offend you in such a way, but I don’t write to you to enquire about that. She told me some rather interesting things — she judged you and Mr Crowley to be rather good friends, and that you had greatly improved in your fencing. That made me very happy, as you know how important fencing is for this family — alas, Mr Crowley is not there to be your friend, not exactly. I have to inform you that he is not who you think he is; he is there to paint the portrait you will soon send to your fiancée (I hope). Go look into his room if you don’t believe me; you’ll probably find his work in progress there. I do not wish to cause animosity between you, believe me — my concern is merely that Mr Crowley will be too distracted and not finish his job. This marriage will happen no matter as to your word on it, and it’s of the utmost importance Mr Crowley finishes his painting. I apologize for it, my son, as none of this is your fault, but as you know, there is no other way._

_Best wishes,_

_Frances Angelo.”_

Aziraphale folded the letter and put it on the table in silence. Crowley had a matching frown on his face now as he let its contents sink in.

“I don’t understand.”

“Great, that makes two of us.”

“Why did she make it so clear to me that I couldn’t tell you who I was, then tell you herself?”

Aziraphale ran a hand through his face, suddenly very tired. His shoulders were down, and the giddy happiness in his expression had gone away as if it had never happened. His hair was still a bit damp — a reminder of their outing some minutes earlier. Aziraphale put his hands on the table between them.

“I don’t know. It must be that what Michael told her must have been too alarming to let it pass.”

“It’s as if she doesn’t want me to be close to you, even if she told me to give you company.”

“Look, I don’t know. My family is like that sometimes — they have a secret agenda they don’t tell anyone else and then they make everything confusing. This letter doesn’t tell us much, besides that she’s not happy that I didn’t welcome Michael, and about my aunt’s health. There’s also the fact that she wants you to finish the painting as soon as possible — perhaps it would be best if you hurried up on that. Will it take much longer to finish?”

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll have it finished for next week, probably, with enough time to give it some touches if necessary.”

“Good. One thing less to worry about.”

Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale, worried; he sat down on the armchair behind him. Aziraphale didn’t look good — he had paled a bit as he read out loud as the weight of his future fell on him unexpectedly. They had got some days to rest and just be happy together, but the world kept turning and time was merciless.

“I know you don’t want to discuss this, but are you sure there isn’t any other option besides this marriage? You don’t desire to go through with it, clearly, and I don’t want you to get into something without carefully viewing all the options. I know you probably have already, but...” Crowley said, his voice low.

Aziraphale sighed. “My mother has insisted that this was the only viable option, ever since my father informed her of the situation. My brother couldn’t quite believe it and tried to find other ways, but he was in a desperate state, in no place to make a good judgement. But you are right — perhaps I should revise my father’s documents and see.” Aziraphale nodded, determined. “If I have to continue with this, I want it to be after checking with my own two eyes that there truly is no other way out. I don’t have many hopes of finding anything, though; my brother revised them and it seemed as if he had found something, judging by his diary, but when I was going through them at my father’s request, I didn’t see anything that could trigger such a reaction. Well, besides the lack of money, of course.”

He chuckled. “I’ll be going into my father’s studio, which was strictly prohibited for us. Isn’t that strange? Some months ago I wouldn’t have even considered it, despite my father being long dead. And now I just accepted it like it’s nothing.”

“Angel, you were always brave. You simply didn’t want to think ill of your family and decided to trust their decisions.”

“I know. I’m not brave, though; I still think they are right and this will be for nigh.”

Crowley stood up and gave him a brief kiss on the lips. “You _are_ brave, you just can’t see it.”

“I’ll have to trust you with that, then.”

Crowley walked around the desk and sat down on Aziraphale’s lap because, frankly, why not. He snuggled in a bit, trying to comfort Aziraphale; he was still exhausted, but the perspective of being able to do _something_ had cheered him up a tiny bit. Crowley was happy to have asked; he had been too scared of his idea being rejected, that Aziraphale would dismiss everything and just accept whatever his family had told him. Even if Aziraphale found nothing, he had still taken a step towards thinking independently from them, and that was huge. Crowley was so proud of Aziraphale — no matter what the lord said, he _was_ brave.

“Is there anything I could help you with researching your father’s documents and all that?”

Aziraphale patted Crowley’s back absentmindedly. “I don’t think so, they’re rather boring, and I know where everything is and can find everything myself. Thank you, though. I could bring all the necessary here so you give me some company as I work if that is alright with you? You could draw or even read a book if you’re in the mood.”

Crowley meditated about it. There was something he had wanted to do, in fact.

“I guess I could read.”

Aziraphale’s expression of surprise made Crowley laugh. “What? It was a joke. Didn’t you say you weren’t a reader?”

“Hm, yeah. But there’s something I want to try.”

“Alright then. I most certainly won’t be stopping you. I can lend you any books you want, you know that.”

“Oooh, angel, are you sure you can trust me with your precious booksss?”

Aziraphale kissed him on the nose and Crowley was divided between being flustered or mildly offended. “Of course, love. Just don’t eat while you read. Or bend the corners. Or —”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry.”

Aziraphale tucked a strand of hair behind Crowley’s ear. He was a bit more relaxed and Crowley was happy to think he had done that.

“Do you want to do that now or later?”

Crowley titled his head. “Why, angel? Do you have any plans in mind?”

“I was simply thinking… we could use those artistic abilities of yours for other purposes, besides the portrait.”

“Oh my, Aziraphale, what is it that you’re proposing, right after your mother pointed out I should do my job?”

Aziraphale leaned on Crowley to whisper in his ear. “How about you paint me nude?”

Oh.

Crowley spluttered some consonants, the possibilities of it making his head spin. Good thing Aziraphale was holding him, or he would have fallen to the ground already.

“Of course, I think today has been emotional enough. Perhaps we could do this later, or even tomorrow. I really need to rest now and think about a couple of things, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, of course, not a problem. I’ll just — nghn. Do you want me to leave you alone or…?”

“No, it’s alright, I just want to close my eyes for a bit. You can stay here if you want.”

Aziraphale did look tired. Crowley put his head on Aziraphale’s chest and started massaging his hand, playing with Aziraphale’s ring. The soothing circular motions apparently worked, as Aziraphale began to relax against the armchair until he finally fell asleep. Crowley kissed him on the cheek and let his mind wander off to the land of dreams as well with his face pressed against Aziraphale’s throat.

===

Crowley had everything prepared and settled the moment Aziraphale stepped into the room. He was walking as if trying to do the least noise possible, but the house wasn’t agreeing with his discretion and it creaked with every step. Aziraphale was wearing a robe and Crowley gulped, knowing that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath — Crowley hoped neither Tracy nor Newt had seen him on his way there.

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, relishing on the effect he was having on him. A day had passed since they had agreed on doing this, and Crowley was sure he had spent the night dreaming about it.

Aziraphale, nude, for him to immortalize.

Crowley watched, speechless, as Aziraphale took off the robe and put it aside. He was beautiful — tender light illuminating him as he walked and sat down on the stool, every curve of him delightful and inspiring. He was an angelic muse, golden and soft with ocean and fire in his eyes and a wicked smile, as Crowley tried to remember how to move his fingers and do anything other than staring at him like a fish out of water.

“Is the stool alright or is it better in another place?”

Aziraphale’s voice made Crowley’s mental engines turn again; he thought about it. He wanted to paint Aziraphale on any surface and position — not only paint, though.

Right now what he wanted was to give special attention to his thighs. They looked wonderful with Aziraphale sitting there with a not entirely innocent expression; as if he had heard Crowley’s thoughts, he moved and crossed his legs as Crowley stared at them.

“How about you sit on the bed with one leg extended and the other bent close to you?”

Aziraphale fluttered his eyelids and did as he was told while Crowley let his eyes follow his movements. Aziraphale was a sight, a masterpiece all in himself with his eyes sparkling as he watched Crowley observing him.

“And how about you hold a book as if you’re reading? You look especially good when you read.” Crowley purred.

Aziraphale giggled and he wiggled his shoulders, delighted. “I’m always reading, dear.”

“Exactly.”

Crowley got up and gave him the closest book he found — The Book.

“Oh, what is this?” asked Aziraphale, inspecting it. He let a finger caress the illustrated flower, his eyes curious and excited as they were every time he held a book. Aziraphale had probably forgotten all about their current situation, and a wave of fondness washed over Crowley at Aziraphale’s joy.

“Erm, well. It’s a book that helped Newt court Miss Anathema and I thought it would help me too.”

“Ohhh yes! I remember seeing you and Newt whisper about something. It was about this, then. That is so sweet.”

Crowley felt his ears burn. He wasn’t the one naked, but he certainly was the most exposed at that instant. Aziraphale was positively shining, studying the book in his hands with renewed interest.

Suddenly, Crowley remembered something.

“I was supposed to keep Anathema updated about my advances with The Book’s help. She was the one who gave it to me.”

“Oh, wonderful! I would like to go visit her sometime soon too. It’s been quite a while since I last saw her. We could go together, one of these days.”

Crowley groaned in agreement and decided to start drawing before Aziraphale asked too many questions about The Book. Crowley fumbled with his pencil as he passed the already used pages of his sketchbook, acutely aware of how many times he had drawn Aziraphale. It was embarrassing, but the prospect of drawing Aziraphale like that was thrilling.

He started to sketch — the pencil traced the shape of Aziraphale’s head and the curve of his neck and back. Crowley lifted his eyes from the paper to look at Aziraphale and found him smiling softly at him, instead of reading — a moment of intimacy was shared as their eyes met, with the quiet acknowledgement that they were both admiring the other with their heart out and open, letting love pour from them in their expression. Crowley felt cherished and appreciated, the way Aziraphale gazed at him as if he was the one having to paint Crowley.

Crowley was filled with the fear of losing him. He knew it was going to probably happen but it didn’t make anything better. He was loved, but what if it was only the fleeting kind of love? What if Aziraphale loved him like one loved flowers or fireworks — instantly, but knowing it was going to end? What if Aziraphale never found a way out? Crowley wanted Aziraphale to be happy, and that was the most important thing — but he didn’t want Aziraphale to get tired of him and put up with Crowley for some weeks only because it would end eventually. He reflected on the withered flower Aziraphale had kept — it was him, he had thought at that instant. Aziraphale had cherished it for some time, but it had eventually withered. He had agreed to research a way out, but what if Aziraphale had only said that to appease him?

Crowley forced his optimistic side to resurface, shaking his head. Trust Aziraphale, that’s what he would do; he had never believed in God but he could believe in the people he loved, as blasphemous as that could be. Either way, trusting someone was something you _decided_ to do, right? And at that moment Aziraphale was practically shining as he looked at him, and that was what was more important: the _now_ , the fleeting instant of time they found themselves in, where Crowley felt blessed with the knowledge he was the one eliciting such a giddy expression from Aziraphale, and was the one being watched and brought to light by him. Aziraphale said he loved him, and Crowley would believe him.

Crowley remembered Aziraphale’s words the day before, how curious it was that he was now brave enough to look into a place which had been off-limits for him, and how Crowley knew that bravery had always been inside Aziraphale, slipping to the outside in different gestures. In parallel, Crowley was now able to trust someone as he trusted Aziraphale, even though he had been unable to be trusting for most of his life. Perhaps he had always had the capacity for it, buried inside, contrary to what he had expected. Loving Aziraphale was like this — he kept finding new aspects of himself he had not contemplated before, as if Aziraphale was pouring light to the different shades of him.

Aziraphale sighed as Crowley reflected on all this and concentrated on his drawing, hypnotized by the motions of his pencil. He took a look at Aziraphale again and the vision made him lose his breath, as always — Aziraphale’s eyes were darker now, his legs more separated as if in invitation. Crowley swallowed and returned his attention to the paper, drawing now what he had intended to focus on principally from the beginning: Aziraphale’s thighs. What a lovely shape they had, with stretch marks that Crowley ached to trace with his tongue. He wondered what sounds that would provoke in Aziraphale; after what they had already done, his imagination had now various examples to provide his mental scenario with more realism. His cock twitched as he continued to draw and, when he looked at Aziraphale again, he saw a similar effect on him. Aziraphale was staring at the book, but his eyes weren’t moving, as if he was trying to appear like he was reading and utterly failing at it. Aziraphale’s eyes lifted to look at Crowley for an instant, to promptly return to his fake lecture. Crowley licked his lips.

Crowley wondered if he could stand up and go to him, but he knew that this wasn’t what Aziraphale wanted; his intention was to be drawn like that, through the eyes of a lover instead of a simple portrait painter, and Crowley would do so.

The basic outline was done now. Crowley began to shadow, starting with the thighs enchanting him. He licked his lips, trying to keep his other hand steady on his knee instead of touching himself as he really wanted to.

Suddenly, a breath near his ear startled him.

“Won’t you come and join me?”

He turned his head around and found Aziraphale standing right behind him. His hands started to trail on Crowley’s shoulders and down his torso as Crowley forgot how to breathe. He dropped the pencil as Aziraphale’s hands traced the growing bulge in his trousers, teasingly, and kissed Crowley’s neck where it was exposed. Before Crowley could say anything or react in any way, Aziraphale walked away and returned to the bed, _Crowley’s_ bed, and put himself into the same position as before as if nothing had happened. However, his erection was curving against his belly, letting his intentions be known.

Crowley swallowed and stood up, putting a knee on the bed as he leaned on Aziraphale, properly tempted by him. He kissed him and Aziraphale immediately wrapped his arms around his neck, drawing Crowley towards him while lying completely down on the bed. Crowley put a hand on the mattress for support, relishing on the contact their bodies made even through Crowley’s clothes.

Drawing could be damned — there was no better way than this one to adore his muse.

Aziraphale wrapped his legs around Crowley's hips, making Crowley gasp. Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s jaw as his hands caressed his neck, just under his hair.

“I can’t wait to see the result of this.”

Crowley chuckled. “I’m afraid the drawing will take longer to finish than what was expected.”

“Nor that I mind.” Crowley snorted.

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed. “I noticed the way you look at my thighs. I don’t know what you see in them, but it gave me some ideas.”

Crowley caressed them as they were surrounding him, letting one of his hands get close to Aziraphale’s erection without actually touching it, just teasing, until Aziraphale’s breath hitched.

“Oh, really?” Crowley purred.

“Yes.” Aziraphale unwrapped his legs from Crowley’s hips and sat down a bit more properly, putting some distance between them to Crowley’s consternation. Then, Aziraphale closed his legs with his knees bent between them too, giving Crowley a great view of his thighs and arse.

“I want to feel you here,” Aziraphale said, putting a hand between his thighs, his voice wavering a bit.

Crowley thought he was going to come just at such a display.

“But first, let me.” Aziraphale stood up and knelt before him, wrapping Crowley’s legs around his waist as he unfastened Crowley’s buttons, freeing his erection, making Crowley blush.

Aziraphale gasped at the sight of it and leaned over, licking the tip experimentally as he fluttered his eyelashes at Crowley, who jerked his hips at the contact. His hand went to Aziraphale’s curls as Aziraphale began to thoroughly lick his cock until it was dripping wet, making Crowley moan. He put his mouth on the head again, sucking and humming. Crowley gasped.

“Aziraphale, wait—“

Aziraphale pulled apart, with a streak of saliva at the corner of his lip. “Don’t worry, we’re all set now.”

Aziraphale lay down again as Crowley approached him, kneeling on the bed. Crowley could feel his legs shaking in anticipation as his eyes locked with Aziraphale’s, who had his head on the pillow. Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale’s knees as he slid his cock between his thighs, the saliva making it all slick and wonderful. He groaned as Aziraphale tightened his thighs around him — Aziraphale licked his lips when he saw Crowley’s cock emerge on the other side.

Crowley started to move, thrusting between his thighs — the wet sounds filled the room as well as the creaks of the bed. Aziraphale’s curls bobbed as Crowley moved; Aziraphale’s hand went to his erection as he watched Crowley move against him. He moaned the instant he felt the friction as Crowley continued.

“You look so beautiful when you’re thrusting against me like this, Crowley, my love. You’re doing so well…”

Crowley gasped and increased his speed as Aziraphale’s lips parted, still wet with saliva and Crowley’s precome. Crowley’s hands tightened around Aziraphale’s knees, the feeling of Aziraphale’s thighs sending thrills through his spine.

“I’m so close, angel.”

Crowley whined when Aziraphale clenched around him again; Aziraphale increased his speed and the image of him masturbating, as his thighs closed on him, made Crowley come all over Aziraphale’s stomach as he thrust through his orgasm. Aziraphale came over him too, their spends mixing. Crowley sat down and put his head on Aziraphale’s knees as he breathed. He kissed Aziraphale’s knee, making him giggle.

After a minute, Crowley got up again to fetch a cloth and came back to wipe Aziraphale clean with soft movements. Aziraphale’s eyes were fluttering close, making quiet sounds of contentment as Crowley cleaned. Then, Crowley leaned over and planted a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead.

“Rest, angel.”

Aziraphale caught his wrist before Crowley could get up. “Don’t leave me alone.”

Crowley softened. “Never.”

He wrapped himself around Aziraphale, with his arms hugging him and his head on his shoulders as he fell asleep, lulled by Aziraphale’s quiet breathing and scent.

===

Crowley fell from the couch, which was to be expected after all the times he had moved in place and the way half of his body had been hanging from the piece of furniture.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grunted as he grabbed the book from the ground, getting up again. “It was more noise than harm.”

Aziraphale shook his head, amused. “I hope my book is not damaged.”

“Don’t worry angel, I took the worst of the fall, not the book.”

“Excellent.”

Crowley grimaced and Aziraphale gave him a pointed look, then returned his attention to the documents in front of him.

They were in the library, the afternoon turning to dusk outside. Aziraphale had taken some of his father’s documents with him to study on his desk and Crowley was on the couch reading, for some reason, a poetry book.

“I would have never taken you as a poetry reader, Crowley.”

“I am not. I just wanted to, you know, get to know you better.” Crowley’s face turned red. “And one of the things of my courting plan is poetry.”

Aziraphale’s heart pounded at the sight of his embarrassment. He was quite lovely, even if he would hate to know about it.

“Are you going to write me poetry, then?”

Crowley lay back until his head was on the armrest and his legs on the back of the couch. “I don’t know, I’m not very good at it and I have no ideas. It’s difficult.”

“Anything you give me is delightful, but please don’t force yourself. Your company is enough of a gift for me.”

Crowley made some flustered sounds that made Aziraphale smile. He turned another page and sighed, frustrated. The numbers were starting to dance in front of his eyes.

“No luck? You sure you don’t want me to help?”

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes, tired. “I’m sure. Thank you.”

Crowley nodded, unsure. His eyes returned to the page he was reading and hummed; Aziraphale titled his head, watching him. It was a curious sight to appreciate, Crowley reading, as the man was always on the move, always chasing something or running away from it. He rarely found the calm to be sitting for long, focused on something; Aziraphale had only observed such a phenomenon when Crowley painted. Now he had been fighting with it until he eventually fell from the couch, but had settled finally, and his shoulders were down and relaxed as he scanned the page in front of him.

“What is it?”

Crowley put a finger on the page, in the place where he had been reading, and lifted his eyes to Aziraphale. “I like this poem. Reminds me of you, somehow. It’s a bit pretentious for me, though.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think several things in my life could be considered pretentious to you, my dear.”

“Fair.”

“What part does it remind you of me, then?”

Crowley turned back to the page, his finger scanning through the paper as he tried to find the exact paragraph. Normally, Aziraphale wouldn’t have accepted him to touch a book so much, but somehow, the idea of Crowley leaving a trace on his books was endearing, as if saying that this had happened, he had been _there_ , their relationship had existed.

Crowley began to read with a steady voice. Aziraphale recognized the poem the moment he started, so he closed his eyes to enjoy Crowley’s voice reading to him.

_“There is something terribly wrong with his face–_

_empty, restless, one side older than the other.”_

Crowley stopped, searching for the next sentence that had caught his attention.

“ _What can you know about a person? They shift_

_in the light. You can’t light up all sides at once. Add_

_a second light and you get a second darkness, it’s only_

_fair. He is looking at the wall and I am looking at his_

_looking.”_

Pause.

_“My shadow falls across his face, blue milk_

_and pistachio, his eyes shine like wedding rings. My_

_shadow falls across him and it doesn’t go away. Some_

_hours later the light has shifted, the floorboards_

_creak. You can’t paint the inside of anything, so why_

_would you try? Painting the inside of anything is_

_dangerous.”_

Another pause, an intense one; Aziraphale caught his breath and didn’t let go, hyper-aware of Crowley’s own breathing and gaze. Crowley continued, softly.

_“Lovers_

_do the looking while strangers look away. It isn’t_

_fair, the depths of my looking, the threat of my_

_looking.”_

Crowley let the words hang in the air between them. For someone that wasn’t used to reading, he did know the power words and the silence between them could have.

_“It’s rude to shake a man visible and claim_

_the results. This side of his face, now this side of his_

_face. His profile up against the tulips. I put down_

_the brush and walked around the room. Even when_

_I look away I am still looking. He is inside his body_

_and I am inside my body and it matters less and less.”_

He cleared his throat, nervous, and it made Aziraphale smile.

_“Anyone can paint_

_a mask. It’s boring. And everyone secretly wants_

_to collaborate with the enemy, to construct a truer_

_version of the self. How much can you change_

_and get away with it, before you turn into someone_

_else, before it’s some kind of murder?”_

And he paused, sewing all those silences together, as if the moments he took to breathe and search for the lines belonged to one another, were a poem of its own. Like an actor with poor memory, dialogue in hand, finding his lines were more true than anything else he had ever said.

_“We tremble_

_and I paint the trembling._

Oh, and this:

_Why build a room you_

_can live in? Why build a shed for your fears?_

_The life of the body is a nightmare. This is my hand_

_over his face, which isn’t his face anymore, revising._

_I made a shape of the shape he made, subtracted_

_what he shared with anyone else. There wasn’t_

_much left but it felt like him, wild and scared.”_

Crowley quieted, the words he had just muttered hanging between them like an enchantment. Aziraphale sighed, his heart clenching painfully in his chest.

“It’s funny. When I reread it, some days ago, it made me think of you.”

Crowley smiled, but there was sadness in his expression. “It’s just… exactly that. You shift and change and I’m here, watching all of it.”

Aziraphale was watching him, now.

_Lovers do the looking while strangers look away._

They stared at each other for a moment, silence making an appearance again.

“I can’t really paint you fully. The extent of you, how you are in reality or how I see you, no matter how much I observe you and try to do so. Nothing ever makes you justice. And I’m always looking, even when I’m not.”

Aziraphale stared at his own hands, folded in front of him on the desk, on top of his father’s useless documents.

“I am not so full of light as you think I am, Crowley. You romanticise me way too much. I’m just… me, nothing else, no hidden depth to it.”

Crowley shook his head. “See? Exactly. I am the one looking, the one who sees that. I see you in all kinds of light, angel, and I see the shadows too. They don’t scare me, I have shadows too. And I love seeing them, getting to know you. The real you, not the one you present to others.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes again, putting a wall between the world and himself to conceal his emotions inside. So many things he could be saying, right now, if he was another person, in another time, with bravery in his veins; but if things changed so much, would they actually be the same? The words repeated themselves in his mind, now with the voice of his lover: _How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?_

It was cruel, but that’s who he was; he couldn’t get up and kiss Crowley like he wanted to, not really. He wanted to do it in a way that would make it clear he wanted to share his life with him, take a chance at the madness they were living, to let himself live and love and _breathe_ while he was happy and nothing mattered anymore. But he couldn’t. He was Aziraphale Angelo. So he didn’t say it, he didn’t ask Crowley to stay with him, or to run away with him, or both, it didn’t matter. He kept his eyes closed until he heard Crowley flip through the pages, giving him space, because Crowley was kind like that. Never demanding an answer, never asking Aziraphale to be who he wasn’t. Well, he did ask questions, but as a way to encourage Aziraphale to be the best version of himself; but always gave Aziraphale space to step back and be a coward if that’s what he preferred.

Aziraphale opened his eyes again when he heard Crowley laugh. He was grateful for the distraction and opened his eyes again, letting the past moment rest behind them.

“Well, I was not expecting you to find poetry this amusing.”

“It’s just — I’ve never understood this story and it’s a bit ridiculous if you ask me.”

Aziraphale put his glasses on the desk and breathed, steadying himself. He held into the helping rope Crowley was handing him. Crowley always had the most interesting of opinions, even if not always correct, and bickering about it was always delightful.

“Which one?”

“Orpheus and Eurydice.”

“Oh yes. I’ve always found it quite romantic myself.”

Crowley’s hands flapped around. “Yeah, but it’s also a bit dumb. Eurydice didn’t need Orpheus to rescue her, she could’ve, I don’t know, escaped. And then it was obvious she didn’t even want to get away from Hell in the first place.”

Aziraphale reflected on it before answering. Crowley _was_ right, in a way. “I know what you mean. The story makes more sense if you think that Eurydice wanted to stay and, perhaps, called on Orpheus to look at her so she had to. It doesn’t make sense for him to make such a mistake after getting so far.”

“He wanted to check on her, but she was a spirit, what could be wrong with her? He should have checked when they’d escaped and she was alive again.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, that’s why; Eurydice decided to stay. Orpheus’ mission was bound to fail from the start because he didn’t take into account Eurydice’s own decision.”

They looked at each other, the heavy silence hanging between both of them.

“She has to be the one to decide to run away. To escape from it all. Hell already has enough souls, she didn’t need to sacrifice herself like that.” Crowley’s voice was low.

A wave of sadness invaded Aziraphale. The previous emotions came back to him, and he tried to control them. “Hell doesn’t forgive or forget. It was the only way to ensure that Orpheus would walk away from it, unscathed.”

“Perhaps he didn’t want to. He could’ve stayed there with her.”

“Hell only wanted one soul, not two. Orpheus didn’t deserve such an end, and Eurydice knew that — she showed true love and compassion when she agreed to stay.”

“But what does that say of Orpheus, returning to the living world like that, leaving her behind? If he truly loved her, he would’ve found a way, it was his whole purpose. Heck, if Eurydice truly _cared_ , she would’ve escaped from there with him.”

“She couldn’t. Love means sacrifice sometimes, Crowley, to let go. No matter how much you love, sometimes it’s the best for both.” Aziraphale choked on his words.

It was painful. Too much to bear, so he looked away.

Crowley’s voice changed into pure guilt. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale, I was too harsh. You don’t deserve this. I know what you mean, but it’s impossible for me to just accept it.”

Aziraphale stood up as a tear trickled down his face. He cleaned it, suddenly furious with it, himself, and his life which he had no control upon and never had. And the worst thing is that no matter how much he tried to fight against the current, it all came crashing down. His father’s documents were proof of it; it was clear as day he had to get married. The luck of making decisions wasn’t one he had been born with, only the illusion of it.

“I know, and you’re right, but there’s nothing I can do. I can’t find a solution to any of this — we’re doomed, simply put. This is too much for me. I apologise.”

Crowley stood up too and walked towards him before Aziraphale could leave the room, taking a hand in his. He kissed Aziraphale’s hand tenderly, and the tight knot around Aziraphale’s heart loosened up a bit.

“I love you, Aziraphale, you know that. I don’t want to lose you and I don’t want you to lose yourself. If it’s your decision to go through this, I will respect it, but don’t ask me to be happy about it, because I won’t be. And it would mean a lot if you continue to be in touch with me afterwards, even if it’s just as friends and nothing more, even if you only write to me once a year. Don’t disappear on me, please.”

Aziraphale caressed Crowley’s face, also wet with tears. He couldn’t even imagine losing him in any way possible — he hated who he was, who he had to be. The impotence of having his tongue tied, of being unable to express his desires once more returned to him. Tracy had been right, but there some things that were better left unsaid. No matter how much he voiced his desires his destiny wasn’t going to change. The world was going to end either way.

“I’m sorry. I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Richard Siken's quotes will haunt me forever
> 
> Chapter title: Would That I, Hozier  
> Poem: "Portrait of Fryderyk in shifting light" by Richard Siken


	18. I'd suffer Hell if you'd tell me what you'd do to me tonight

“You’re not going to read poetry today, my dear?”

Crowley mumbled something incomprehensible to normal human beings and continued working. He was blessedly focused on the task at hand, perched like a bird on his usual couch in the library.

Aziraphale giggled and continued to do whatever he was doing — Crowley hadn’t been, for once, paying much attention to him. On occasion, his mind could concede to work and do something other than admiring Aziraphale.

Those times were rare, though.

Aziraphale was sitting on his desk just like last time but Crowley was vaguely aware he wasn’t studying his father’s documents any more — he had given up on it since that day. There was no use for them other than confirming what they already knew: the Angelo family was deep in debt and there was no easy solution to it other than accepting the fiancée’s family money.

Crowley remembered the last time they had been there and grimaced. He wasn’t precisely the most tactful of people, true; and now he had blown up everything. Again. Aziraphale’s upset face was now haunting him, frozen at the moment he had admitted there really was no way out of their current situation. Crowley was frustrated with everything, but mostly with himself — Aziraphale wasn’t at fault. He couldn’t just expect him to find a magical solution or accept Crowley’s exploding emotions when he was the one being married to someone he didn’t know. Aziraphale was doing his best, and Crowley trusted in him.

Poetry was definitely out of the list now. Not that he would have come up with something either way.

His brush nearly slipped from his fingers as he was momentarily distracted by his thoughts. It was the morning of the first day of their last week together, and he wasn’t going to fuck things up again with Aziraphale. He had done so many times already. Crowley wanted to spend the rest of their time laughing and bickering, swimming and fencing and doing whatever was necessary for Aziraphale to smile. The courting list was helpful in that way, but he had to be sure matters didn’t get too close to home as they did with poetry.

Crowley let his eyes close for a second as he tipped his head backwards on the couch. He focused on the scent of the library — old books, left-over wine, ashes from the fireplace and Aziraphale. Always Aziraphale. 

“If you’re going to sleep, be sure to put the paint in a place it’s not going to fall and stain all over my couch.”

The corner of his lips curved at Aziraphale’s tone. “Don’t worry, angel, I’m not going to fall asleep. Well, we could stain the couch in other, _better_ ways, though.”

Aziraphale tutted but there was amusement in his voice. Crowley sighed and returned to his painting, determined. It was nearly done. 

As a prize for concentrating so well, he glanced at Aziraphale, who was still at his desk. He was wearing those ridiculous, tiny glasses perched on his nose as he wrote in what appeared to be a diary from that distance. Crowley arched an eyebrow; he had never seen Aziraphale write in it before. Aziraphale was focused on it with his lips slightly parted as if demanding to be kissed. Crowley opted not to fall into temptation and do so, as a focused Aziraphale was lovely to observe and he didn’t want to interrupt. 

However, Crowley must have been staring with too much intensity because Aziraphale lifted his eyes from the page to glance at him in return.

“Is something wrong?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nothing, angel. Just curious to know what you’re writing.”

Aziraphale, interestingly, blushed. “Oh, it’s not important. Just my diary.”

A grin appeared on Crowley’s face at that. “Angel, what are you writing about? Our little experiences together, perhaps?”

Aziraphale’s blush deepened and Crowley barked a laugh. “I never knew you could be this lewd, angel, keeping a record. Not that I mind.”

“It’s certainly not that! I am _not_ writing about our… experiences, as you say.”

Crowley’s eyebrows wriggled. “And what could you be writing about, then?”

Aziraphale lifted his chin in a very proper way, his cheeks still red. “It’s private.”

“Not that I mind that you have your private sessions with yourself, angel, but I would _love_ to participate sometime if you’d let me.”

“Oh, hush, you fiend.”

Crowley winked at him and returned to his painting. Aziraphale seemed oddly attached to the diary, and wasn’t all that surprising he had one — Lord Gabriel certainly had, and it was good for Aziraphale to free his thoughts expressively. Or perhaps it was simply all about fencing and it had been something imposed by their father. Crowley hoped it wasn’t just that, as Aziraphale needed to express himself somehow as he tended not to do so; writing his thoughts down was an excellent idea. And contrary to what he had joked about, he would never step into Aziraphale’s privacy without permission. He could understand it, as he didn’t let Aziraphale take a look at his unfinished portrait either.

He glanced at Aziraphale again, this time with more discretion, to find him focused on his work again. He was smiling a bit as he wrote and his free hand caressed the corners of the diary; Aziraphale certainly cherished it and was enjoying what he was doing. Seeing him happy with something so simple made Crowley’s heart grow a bit bigger. 

Minutes passed and with a happy sigh, Crowley judged the painting done. It still needed to be left to dry but his patience had run out — Crowley got up and silently walked towards Aziraphale so as not to startle him. Aziraphale’s process of lifting his eyes from the paper to look at Crowley was a slow one, as his mind returned from wherever it had wandered off to his body again. Crowley admired that capacity of his to focus on his work completely, basically giving himself to it.

At Aziraphale’s silent question, he showed his painting, careful not to accidentally read what Aziraphale had been writing. He couldn’t help it, and he blushed as Aziraphale’s eyes brightened when he recognized what he was seeing.

“Oh, Crowley… this is utterly breathtaking. As you are.”

Crowley pointedly stared at his suddenly very interesting shoes to avoid getting even more flustered. He couldn’t really believe he had dared to paint that, but judging by Aziraphale’s joy it had been a good idea.

He had finally given him something to remind Crowley by.

“This is a lover’s eye*, right? Oh, it’s wonderful.”

When Crowley finally dared to look at him, Aziraphale’s eyes were impossibly soft as he admired the tiny painting. It depicted one of Crowley’s yellow eyes intently staring back at the viewer. 

“So, well… now you have a piece of me with you, always, so you remember that I look out for you. And also strangely stare at you sometimes.” 

Aziraphale laughed and his eyes were suddenly filled with tears. Crowley instantly was at his side, kneeling in front of Aziraphale and taking a hand in his.

“I’m sorry it upset you, perhaps it wasn’t the best gift after all, I can take it back-”

“You will absolutely not. I love it, and I’m going to carry it with me at all times.”

Aziraphale sniffed, composing himself again, and put a hand inside his waistcoat pocket. He took a golden pocket watch out with wings on its lid — it appeared to be as old as Aziraphale’s ring, judging by its glow. Aziraphale opened it with a click and then fumbled with it until a secret compartment opened on the side. 

“I can put the painting here, I think. It’s small enough.”

Crowley smiled, happy to see Aziraphale was going to save it. Painting his eye had been an odd thing, as it brought back some bad memories — but Aziraphale liked his eyes. It was worth it.

“Alright. But let it dry for the rest of the day before pocketing it.”

Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hands to his lips and kissed them. “Thank you so much, my dear. I’ll always treasure it.”

Crowley may have softened a bit at those words, but it was fine, as the only person witnessing it was Aziraphale.

===

“Are you sure you want to go out with this sky? It’s going to rain for sure.”

“Don't worry, Tracy. A little rain is not going to scare us off.”

Tracy sighed. “Alright then. I simply don’t want you to get unnecessarily sick. If it gets too cold, please come back.”

Aziraphale kissed Tracy’s cheek. “It’ll be fine. You’re going home now, right?”

Tracy smiled and nodded. Crowley was behind her, not paying attention as he fumbled with the buttons of his coat.

Aziraphale put on his white coat and opened the door. The cold wind immediately froze his cheeks and he grimaced; perhaps Tracy was right and it was better not to go out. Crowley let out a sad noise, feeling the weather too as it reached his bones. Aziraphale sighed — he hated to change plans, so unless it did rain, they would go.

“Come on, dear.”

“You sure? It’s so cold one would think it’s about to snow.”

“Oh, come on now, it’s not _that_ cold.”

Crowley grumbled but followed Aziraphale into the freezing world outside. Aziraphale hid a smile as he heard Crowley still complaining behind him as they walked towards the town hidden by some fog.

They were about to visit Anathema in her library as promised. Crowley had mumbled something about not wanting to be cursed by a witch as apparently, this visit had been long due, but knowing Anathema, Aziraphale was fairly sure nothing of that sort would happen. He hoped.

Finally, they got there, and they hurried inside to avoid another rush of wind that would definitely freeze them into place for good.

“Welcome!”

Anathema’s voice came from the back of the store, so while Crowley shivered in the entrance he walked over there, joyous to see his friend again. 

“Miss Device?”

Anathema stepped out of behind a shelf with a smile on her face.

“Just Anathema, please, you should already know that. Aziraphale, it’s been so long! How’s everything?”

“Jolly good! And I hear you are too, judging by Newt’s recent good spirits.”

Anathema, unexpectedly, blushed. Aziraphale was shocked as she was not one to get flustered easily. Newt was a very good man, and he was glad he had been enamoured of Anathema. They strangely suited each other endearingly; Aziraphale shot a glance at the entrance, which didn’t go unnoticed by Anathema.

“Oh, is someone else there?”

Before Aziraphale could stop her, she walked towards the door, where a very pale Crowley was still shivering there. Perhaps they shouldn’t stay out of home for too long in the end, judging by his blue lips. Cold weather was not invented for slender beings such as Crowley.

Anathema saw him and shot a glance at Aziraphale before speaking to Crowley, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Well, look who finally made an appearance.”

“Hullo.” Crowley’s face was amusingly sad to see. 

Aziraphale made a _come here_ gesture so Crowley would step further into the bookshop and avoid the cold air filtering from the door’s gaps. Crowley did so and the warmer atmosphere of the bookshop made him relax visibly and gain some colour on his cheeks.

“So, you finally realized you owe me something, hm?”

Anathema crossed her arms as she waited for Crowley to regain his proper speaking abilities. Aziraphale preferred not to comment and to just walk around the shop to try and find any new acquisitions Anathema may have brought.

“Yeah, uh… Honestly, I just forgot.”

“Oh, you forgot? I lend you my book, which is _precious_ to me, out of the kindness of my heart, and you forget to keep me updated?”

Aziraphale tried very hard not to laugh.

“Look, Book Girl, I can’t always remember everything. I have… other matters to care about.”

“I must apologize, then, for interrupting your _oh_ so full agenda. Don’t let me get in between you and your dreams.”

Crowley grunted. It was rare to see him lose a discussion such as this, besides with Aziraphale, of course. 

Aziraphale glanced at them and the look on Crowley’s face nearly made him lose his control. It was a portrait of confusion and displeasure, as if he had bitten into a lemon. 

“You two get along well,” Aziraphale observed.

“We don’t!” said Anathema as Crowley only growled.

Aziraphale chuckled and continued to innocently inspect the books. 

“All I want to know is if it worked,” said Anathema.

Crowley was silent for a moment, and Aziraphale felt eyes on him for a moment. He blushed, but as he was showing them his back, he hoped it would go unnoticed.

“I think it sort of did, yeah.”

“Oh, I see. I’m glad, then.” Anathema’s voice betrayed a shade of a smile.

Aziraphale walked towards the next shelf and caressed lightly the well-familiar books. He had greatly missed going there as the place fueled his dreams of owning a bookshop. He imagined himself living like this, spending his time in a cherished place surrounded by the books he loved. It could be curious from an outside perspective that he loved books this much even though he had been self-isolated in a library. But he did, simply — those books narrated elements from the outside world in a way that was safe for him to experience. Besides, he simply enjoyed reading as a way to pass time excitingly. He was always drawn to their stories as if his soul tingled towards it. 

In his bookshop, Aziraphale would spend his days reading without a care in the world, and the only problems he would have to worry about would be his potential customers. He would prepare hot drinks and sit on his armchair with a book in his hands, to perhaps get interrupted by the sound of some familiar steps and the flickering touch of hair as someone leaned over his neck, from behind, to plant a kiss on his cheek. 

The thought filled him with the nostalgia of something he had not experienced, as if he was drowning in honey. He tried to focus on the conversation happening behind him instead.

“Does your book have, I dunno, a special prophetic ability?” asked Crowley.

“Some claim it does. It depends on the reader, as the sentences can have different interpretations to them. Has it happened to you?”

“Yeah, with a couple of parts. I thought it was a bit dumb, honestly, but I figured it wasn’t a bad idea to ask either way.”

Anathema hummed. “You were right. Would it be too bad to ask for the book back? It is precious to me. It doesn’t have to be immediately, just whenever you decide you don’t need it anymore. I know for instance that Newt won’t be needing it.”

“Oh, clever girl. Be careful or Newt will start getting ideas.”

“Let him, then.”

Crowley whistled, impressed. Aziraphale couldn’t wait to tell everything to Tracy.

“And I still need it, I think. I can give it back in a week though.” Crowley’s voice broke a bit in the end, and Aziraphale fixed his gaze harder on the book in front of him without really reading the title. 

“Perfect. You can always give it to Newt and he’ll return it to me.”

Aziraphale decided to step into the conversation now before Anathema could think to ask what was going to happen in one week.

“And how is your family, dear?”

At that precise moment, a loud buzzing interrupted them. Crowley’s face transformed into a rictus of pure horror and disgust as he looked around, startled, trying to find the origin of the noise. As he did so, Crowley stepped towards Aziraphale who, as a reflex, put an arm in front of Crowley as if to protect him, aware of his repulsion towards insects.

Anathema arched an eyebrow at Crowley’s reaction. “I think that must have been some wasp searching for a bit of warmth. It tends to happen at this time of the year.”

“There’s a wasp?” Crowley’s voice was shaky, his cool facade dropped.

“I don’t know, dear. I hear it but I can’t see it.” Aziraphale continued to look around in vain. 

The buzzing was quite loud, revealing that the wasp was probably a big one; Aziraphale refrained from making such an observation out loud as it wouldn’t exactly help the poor, scared man at his side.

The noise got closer.

“You know what? I think I’m going to go to the pub and drink something warm. See you later!” Crowley exclaimed, heavily implying he wasn’t expecting to see them again as they would probably perish in the hands of the wasp.

And with that, Crowley bolted out of the bookshop. Anathema stood there, perplexed, clearly wondering what the hell had just happened — Aziraphale was not as surprised, as he was already familiar with this particular fear of Crowley’s.

“What happened? Was it something I said?”

“No, don’t worry. Let’s just say insects aren’t his favourite of creatures.”

Anathema chuckled. “Well, shall I show you my new acquisitions?”

Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders, interested. “Of course.”

===

The putrid smell of the pub slapped Crowley in the face the moment he entered. There were quite a lot of people there — they probably all had the same idea as Crowley to seek temporary warmth with a glass of whatever drinkable alcohol Hastur happened to be able to offer. The floor was suspiciously sticky and Crowley grimaced all the way to the stools by the bar counter. The good thing was that the temperature there was warmer than the outside, even if Anathema’s bookshop was way more pleasant. At least there were no wasps there; Crowley shuddered at the thought. The only visible insects in the vicinity were some wandering flies on a pile of something suspicious that Crowley decided not to investigate in-depth and to completely ignore instead.

He wondered, not for the first time, why he even came back to this place; dark, smelly and full of displeasing people. The alcohol wasn’t as bad as it could be, true; but it wasn’t worth it, especially knowing he could be having much better drinks with Aziraphale. And better company.

Either way, it gave him a perfect and reasonable excuse to walk away from a place infested with wasps in a way that had been discreet and not at all alarming or exaggerated. 

“Hey, it’s you again.” 

Crowley grinned at Hastur’s displeased face. “Nice to see you too.”

Hastur put a glass of something in front of him without another word. Well, Crowley couldn’t have the opportunity to choose what he wanted to drink.

“Thanks.”

Hastur grunted and walked away to attend to another customer, who was asking for more alcohol in a way that communicated how much they shouldn’t be having more. Crowley took a long sip of his glass and gratefully welcomed the pouring warmth travelling through his body.

A strange thing happened then. Someone else walked by behind the counter, someone who wasn’t Hastur and who Crowley had never seen.

“Hullo.”

The man grunted. Alright then — Hastur’s acquaintance for sure.

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you. Ligur isn’t exactly the best at making friends. You could say that Hastur is a chattering nun by comparison, even.”

Crowley turned around to find Eric sitting on the stool next to his. He was also drinking the same thing as Crowley, but he was doing so as if it was water. Crowley hadn’t even seen him when he walked in.

Crowley hummed, a bit surprised someone could be compared to Hastur in such a way. “Does Ligur work here too?”

“Apparently. I think Hastur only calls him to help when there are too many people.”

Crowley frowned. “Wasn’t this pub’s owner Hastur’s brother? I’ve never seen him.”

Eric shrugged, amused. “No one has seen him. He’s a legend. Also, he’s only the owner and doesn’t actually work here. Hastur is the one doing all the dirty work.”

Crowley grunted — he was familiar with that. A new wave of sympathy for Hastur rushed over him, but it didn’t last long, as he watched the man slap the drunk man on his counter back to life. Hastur wasn’t one to inspire much pity in any other human being.

Hastur came back, served another glass in front of them and then took a sip of it without saying a word, as if he was seeking their company. Strange. 

Crowley hated the awkward silence that had been imposed so he tried making small talk. 

“So, Hastur! Have you ever considered cleaning this place a bit?”

Crowley was very bad at small talk.

Eric’s eyes widened and jumped from Hastur to Crowley, waiting for an explosion. It never came and Hastur continued to drink as if nothing had happened. Honestly, it had probably not been the first time someone addressed the pub’s state.

“How’s it going with Lord Angelo?”

The question made Crowley speechless. What was that about, now? He shot a glance at Eric, who simply shrugged, also lost for an explanation.

“Erm, good?”

Hastur made a non-committal noise that Crowley wasn’t sure how to interpret. 

“Were you able to find more about Lord Gabriel’s apparent suicide?”

Crowley frowned. “And why should I tell you?”

Eric cleared his throat, interrupting before Hastur could reply. “Hey, I don’t think it’s wise to go that way, Hastur.”

Hastur grunted. “I was just making small conversation. Mr Crowley here has been worried about that family, right? He has been asking questions. It’s only normal I want a follow-up on that.”

It had been the longest sentence Crowley had ever heard Hastur vocalize.

“I know, and perhaps I shouldn’t have asked so many questions. My bad. Doesn’t mean I’m going to be explaining other people's private affairs.”

Hastur barked a strange laugh which made Crowley grimace. It was deeply uncomfortable.

“Oh, so now you prefer privacy? After asking about _my_ affairs and what I knew about them, instead of asking that strange family directly?”

Eric lifted his hands to make peace. “Hey…”

Hastur and Crowley ignored him. 

“Look, I know it was precisely not the smartest move, and I apologise for that. Still, it doesn’t mean I owe you explanations. You have worked for them and you know them, so make your own conclusions.”

“I just wonder how it feels like to live with a murderous and manipulative little shit.”

Crowley got up and leaned towards Hastur, showing his teeth. “Don’t talk about Aziraphale like that.”

Hastur squinted his eyes, unimpressed. “ _Aziraphale_? So that’s how it is, then? Getting all close and familiar with the lord, for what? Money? A good time? Be careful not to get murdered yourself.”

Crowley stared at Hastur in silence. He searched inside his pocket and slammed some coins on the counter. Finally, he bowed his head at Eric, who vocalized a _sorry_ and left the place.

He sure as Hell wouldn’t be coming back.

Crowley was greeted with an even colder wind than before which didn’t help with his mood. The temperature sobered him in an instant, all traces of whatever warmth the alcohol had brought him rapidly disappearing. He wondered, confused, where he should walk towards — perhaps Aziraphale was still in the bookshop. He covered himself better with his coat and covered up to his nose as he began walking.

Hastur was fucking rude. There was no other way to put it. Alright, yes, Crowley shouldn’t have been asking so many questions and burying his now freezing nose into others’ affairs; it was something that had gotten him in all kinds of trouble before. It didn’t give Hastur permission to say such things about Aziraphale. Good, gentle Aziraphale. 

Where was he now? Crowley oddly missed him.

He walked past some houses and shops on his way as he focused on the bookshop, illuminated in the distance. It had gotten quite dark now with the clouds covering the sky menacingly. 

“Crowley? Is that you?”

He turned around to find Aziraphale half-way out of a shop — he instantly recognized it as Miss Petunia’s flower shop. Aziraphale’s cheeks were a bit red and his silhouette contrasted with the light coming from the shop.

Crowley changed directions towards him, a huge smile on his face hidden by his coat. He was ridiculously happy to see Aziraphale again, as if they hadn’t parted for merely fifteen minutes. 

“Wait there, I’ll go with you,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley stopped. 

Aziraphale turned around for a moment to say something to someone behind him and stepped out of the shop, closing the door behind him. He shivered visibly and walked towards Crowley, who waited for him, trying not to die of hypothermia right there and then. Without a word, they began pacing in the direction of the house as Crowley dreamed of cuddling in front of a nice, warm fire.

“Was your drink in the pub nice?”

Crowley grunted. “They’re a bunch of arseholes. I don’t think I’m going back.”

“Oh, did something happen?”

“They were rude.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Poor Crowley. Scared by an innocent wasp and then some people were rude to you.”

Crowley pouted at his tone. “And it’s cold.”

“Let’s not forget the temperature, no. Today has not been gentle with you.”

“Hmmmm.”

Aziraphale chuckled and the sound made Crowley warmer inside. 

“Miss Petunia told me that not only you have stolen the tulip, but also every other flower you have given me. I want you to know that I know of it and she does too.”

This day was definitely not being nice to Crowley.

“Yeah…”

“She is alright with it. No damage done, as apparently the flowers you took were discarded ones.”

Crowley’s face flushed.

“And I have a strong suspicion you already knew that.”

Crowley wisely decided not to comment on that. He was evil and he had been stealing, no matter what others’ opinions were.

“You’re very nice, Crowley.”

“Shaddup.”

Aziraphale giggled as they continued to fight the elements.

===

“Let’s duel again, angel.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “Again? It’s not been that long since our last _tête-à-tête._ And you still need to practise quite a lot more with the dagger.”

Crowley circled Aziraphale as he cleaned the swords with a stern look. The day hadn’t gotten all that better and, bored, they had decided to practise a bit in the _salle_ to kill a bit of time, as their usual walks had been suspended by the rain. Crowley still held hopes of defeating Aziraphale one day if he practised enough. Aziraphale wasn’t one to dismiss those hopes.

They had practised the usual exercises too much and Crowley wanted to try more advanced techniques, which somehow amused Aziraphale as a warm feeling arose inside of him. He loved to see Crowley excited about something.

Aziraphale handed him one of the practice swords with a significant look, at which Crowley grinned. They took their stance in front of each other as the rain continued to pour heavily against the windows. 

Aziraphale waited and his patience was compensated with a lunge towards his abdomen which he quickly avoided. Crowley had the tendency to lunge at the minimum opportunity, something that wasn’t entirely wise as he could quickly lose balance, as he moved with too much emphasis.

Aziraphale answered with a quick circular movement of his wrist that made his smallsword get too close to Crowley, but which he also deflected. Their swords continued to meet, again and again, the constant deviation of them looking as they were drawing circles in the air between them. Aziraphale practically didn’t move his torso and mainly used his arm and wrist — meanwhile, Crowley lunged from time to time, trying to use his long legs to his best advantage.

With surprise, Crowley moved in a particular way and Aziraphale recognized it — he was trying to disarm Aziraphale with one of the same techniques he had used on Crowley before. Aziraphale stepped back instantly and Crowley pouted, disappointed. His heart raced; perhaps Crowley hadn’t realized it, but it had actually been close. Too close. Aziraphale had been feeling too confident and he had nearly paid the price. It hadn't been the first time it happened, and Aziraphale really ought to focus more.

Aziraphale decided to try harder; he lunged forward, directing his intent towards Crowley’s leg, at which Crowley answered by slightly bending backwards to meet Aziraphale’s sword by the base of his blade. Crowley attacked him towards his abdomen again and Aziraphale took a step back.

They looked at each other and smiled, excited — their breaths were starting to become more agitated. Aziraphale’s veins were full of adrenaline as he watched Crowley observe him with wide yellow eyes, studying him to predict his next movement, like a snake hunting its prey. Aziraphale realized he _enjoyed_ the fight, unable to fully predict all of Crowley’s movements. There was always something quite wild and free in Crowley when he fenced, and it suited him, which wasn’t all that surprising — his job was also to watch and study people, with the difference that now he could apply that knowledge and answer in kind.

Aziraphale loved a good challenge. 

“Be careful to not fall again, Crowley.”

Crowley winked. “It’s not so bad when you get used to it.”

Aziraphale laughed and Crowley tried to attack him — this time, Aziraphale saw him coming and stopped him. Aziraphale tutted, amused; he was having a great deal of fun.

Besides, Crowley fencing was not only exhilarating but hard to focus on. Crowley was hypnotising in the way he moved and grinned, clearly enjoying their exchange. His hair was perfectly tied up with only some strands falling and bouncing in a lovely way as he moved around. Aziraphale recalled the way his body had squirmed and how he had panted when he held him against the very same wall behind Crowley now when they had tried daggers for the first time. He swallowed.

Crowley flickered his wrist and nearly caught Aziraphale by surprise again, but he managed to retreat just in time to see the tip of Crowley’s sword passing him by.

“That was close, angel.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Don’t get too cocky, Anthony.”

Crowley blinked a couple of times at that, but quickly recomposed himself; the trick was wearing off. Pity. Aziraphale could only smile and try not to get too distracted again by how Crowley was moving his hips.

Their swords went up and down, somehow avoiding each other by mere inches, until something changed in Crowley’s eyes. Without warning, Crowley lunged forward and knelt with one knee as he propelled the sword upwards towards his chest. Aziraphale tried to stop him as he moved backwards, but it was too late — Crowley’s sword, even if slightly deflected by Aziraphale’s sword, touched his chest.

Crowley had finally defeated Aziraphale.

Aziraphale let his arm fall by his side, exhausted. He breathed in and out, his eyes wide staring at Crowley, who was still kneeling on the floor with his sword touching Aziraphale as if he couldn’t quite believe he had done that. His surprised eyes went from his sword to Aziraphale and, realisation finally hitting him, he grinned, triumphant.

Aziraphale wasn’t one to resist temptation for too long.

Aziraphale dropped his sword and grabbed Crowley by the shirt’s collar, making him stand up until their lips met. Crowley sighed against him and his hands went to Aziraphale’s waist, gripping into his waistcoat for dear life as he pulled him closer. Aziraphale deepened the kiss immediately, impatient, tasting Crowley as he touched his tongue with his to then slightly bit his lower lip.

“Is this my prize for winning?” Crowley breathed.

“Yes.”

Crowley rolled his hips slightly against Aziraphale, making him gasp. “I like it very much.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley towards him again even if there was not much space between them anymore. He kissed him until Crowley gasped for air, and then pressed hot kisses along his throat. There was a bit of sweat there and Aziraphale licked it, humming, as Crowley made noises in his arms. 

Aziraphale’s hands went from Crowley’s collar to his chest, slowly caressing downwards without stopping until his fingers got caught in the hem of Crowley’s trousers. He put his thumbs between them and Crowley’s hips, tracing the space there towards his back until his arms were surrounding Crowley. With what Crowley would define as a “bastardly grin”, he put his hands on Crowley’s bony arse to make their hips collide.

“Angel!” Crowley looked at him with a mix of surprise, lust and pride.

“Sorry, dear. I am just _so_ impressed with what you just did.” 

Crowley squirmed and Aziraphale was positive he could feel just how much he was impressed with him. He playfully bit Crowley’s jaw as Crowley tightened his hands on Aziraphale’s back. 

“You have become so much better, even catching me unaware of your next move.”

Crowley looked flushed but grinned either way. “What can I say. I have a very talented teacher.”

“There’s no need for flattery, now, is there?”

“Who knows. I could be getting another gift.”

Aziraphale hummed and kissed him on the nose. “I think you’ll get quite recompensated, no need to add to it. We don’t want you to get too pampered, do we?”

Crowley pouted and Aziraphale kissed the pout. “Aw, come on angel, it’s not every day I win.”

Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders and squeezed Crowley’s arse a bit. Just a bit. “How about we go to your room and continue?” 

Crowley shivered but maintained his cool. “Alright. Sounds reasonable.”

Aziraphale chuckled and kissed him between the eyes. Lovely eyes he had, Crowley, and now he had a memory of them forever to carry in his pocket.

Their resolve made, they left the room and ran towards the house getting quite drenched on the way. It was pouring in a way it hadn’t for some time, probably the last being the day Crowley and Aziraphale had met.

It was poetic, in a way. After all that had happened.

The door opened a bit violently because of the wind and they laughed, giddy with the silly emotion running in the rain gives, with their blood a bit too full of happiness, breathing the cold air that warned Fall was coming. 

“Crowley, you are soaking the entrance! It will be a pain to dry everything later. The wood will get damaged!”

“Honestly, I don’t care about wood right now.”

Aziraphale gasped. “How can you say something so horrible?”

Crowley shrugged and ran a hand through his wet hair, releasing it from the now useless tie. His hair fell, now free and quite tangled, and he shook it, but some strands got stuck on his face. It was endearing and a bit seductive, pairing quite well with Crowley’s drenched clothes sticking to his body in a too illustrative way. 

“It’s just wood. If trees can get rained on and be fine, why can’t a wooden floor do the same? Also, you’re creating your own puddle too.”

Aziraphale knew he was right but pointedly decided to dismiss the fact. “I’ll bring towels and dry everything.”

Crowley groaned. “Why, angel? No, leave it alone, it’ll be fine. I promise. Let’s go to the room.”

Aziraphale tutted, perfectly capable of reading Crowley’s intentions. “I’m not going to get my floors damaged just because you’re an impatient little thing.”

“I am _not_ little. Of all people, you should know that.”

Aziraphale gave him a look.

“And it’s my prize, come on. Are you really going to make me wait?”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow.

“Alright, fine, but I am _not_ going to help.”

Aziraphale arched the other eyebrow.

Crowley lifted his arms in exasperation. “Fine, fine, I’ll go find the towels.”

“Good.”

Aziraphale stared at the way Crowley very deliberately swayed his hips as he walked towards the kitchen, like a hypnotising pendulum. He might be a tad dramatic, but Aziraphale would certainly not complain about that view.

Crowley came back with three towels — a bit of overkill, honestly — and they dried off the entrance, which then turned out to be quite a stupid decision as their clothes were still wet and dripping on the floor. Aziraphale grabbed the extra towel and wrapped it around Crowley’s head to caringly dry his hair. Crowley let him, closing his eyes at it while Aziraphale smiled at how Crowley was all sharp edges and silly legs but could turn into a soft little creature when he was not paying attention.

He gently kissed him on the lips while Crowley still had his eyes closed. He tasted of rain and they were a bit cold, but lovely just the same.

“Angel, we’re creating another puddle right where we’re standing.”

“You may have not thought this through properly.”

It was Crowley’s turn to be offended. “ME? It was your idea to dry the floor! I am just a poor victim of your fussy machinations.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Alright. Let’s leave the towels here and go get changed. Then we can come back and finish cleaning everything.”

“Ugh. Why can’t, I don’t know, Newt do it? Where is everyone?”

“Newt went to visit Anathema for who knows how long and it’s Tracy’s day off. She’s probably spending time with her grumpy husband.”

“Oh, she’s married?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, but I have met her husband only once. It was an… experience.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow but preferred not to comment. He started to climb the stairs and he turned around, giving a significant gaze at Aziraphale who followed him, perhaps stealing glances at Crowley’s arse while he moved, or perhaps not. 

The moment they entered the room Crowley started to take off his waistcoat while walking towards the bed as Aziraphale watched. Not able to resist the impulse, he approached Crowley and started playing with the buttons of his trousers, but a suspicious grin stopped him.

“Well, well, angel. Aren’t we supposed to just get changed and clean the floor?”

Aziraphale pouted. “Oh, shush.”

“Don’t worry, I will absolutely not stop you.”

Aziraphale considered his options. Crowley was right in front of him, all drenched and nice and grinning in a way that invited at least a bit of kissing to make him shut up; but on the other hand, those floors did need some drying. He thought about it as Crowley began to unbutton his shirt, slowly and with meaning as he locked eyes with him, which was a bit distracting.

Aziraphale reached a very proper and logical conclusion, completely fair and not at all influenced by anything, that they had put the towels on the puddles either way and the worst would get absorbed, so the floors could surely wait for a little.

Aziraphale put his hands on top of Crowley’s, stopping him, to finish unbuttoning the shirt. Crowley’s triumphant smile blinded him for a moment as Aziraphale became aware that, somehow, Crowley had won twice that day.

“You terrible fiend.”

“The best one.” Crowley slightly swayed his hips to make his point clear. 

Aziraphale let the shirt fall from Crowley’s shoulders and then looked at him in a way that made Crowley stop immediately. 

He arched an eyebrow and Crowley’s lips formed a breathless _oh_ before Aziraphale took him in his arms to carry him, wrapping an arm under his knees and another on Crowley’s back.

“What the-”

Crowley wrapped himself around Aziraphale and their eyes met, their faces mere inches away. His cheeks turned a delightful shade of red and Aziraphale smirked.

“You’re quite easy to pick up, my dear.”

Crowley politely answered with some consonants followed by some others, as Aziraphale moved towards the bed and dropped the vocal-less disaster on the mattress. 

Crowley stared at him with his mouth slightly open as Aziraphale knelt on the bed in front of him. He was fetching this way, sprawled in all directions as the trousers stuck to him, making his erection obvious. 

Aziraphale ran both hands following the length of those unending legs towards Crowley’s waist.

“These must be getting uncomfortable. Want me to take them off for you?”

Crowley, still speechless, simply nodded, and Aziraphale followed suit. Crowley eagerly lifted his hips so Aziraphale could take the trousers off and then he tossed them aside with a flop.

“Aziraphale! How dare you leave the clothes on the ground without folding them?” Crowley teased.

“They are wet, there’s no use in folding them, and in fact, they could get ugly marks on them if I did. Or do you want me to stop and take care of them…?”

“NO! It's fine. Egh.”

Aziraphale chuckled.

“You’re a mean bastard, angel. Playing with my feelings like that.”

Aziraphale climbed on top of Crowley and stared at him in the eyes until Crowley began to squirm, which took about two seconds. He caressed his face with a finger, tracing the outline of this cheek and jaw, letting his emotions get hold of him.

“I love you.”

Crowley sucked in a breath and didn’t say anything, the deep emotion in Aziraphale’s words silencing him for one second.

Crowley smiled, softly, something shining in his eyes that were soft and fragile and Aziraphale yearned to protect it. “You’re ridiculous. But I love you too.”

Aziraphale started to press tender and teasing kisses along his throat and then the length of his chest, but Crowley started to squirm again. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Clothes.”

Crowley pointed it out and, effectively, Aziraphale was still wearing clothes, while Crowley only had his underwear left to lose.

“Yes, those are clothes.”

Crowley glared at him. “I know what those are. I just want to know why you are still wearing them.”

“Nothing is stopping you from doing something about it.”

“Oh?”

Crowley immediately shot his hands towards Aziraphale’s neck stock to free him from it, but his fingers lingered a couple of seconds on his throat. Aziraphale saw him swallow. It eventually ended up flying away towards the floor with the rest of the clothes.

Crowley continued with his waistcoat as Aziraphale simply watched, enjoying how precious the experience of Crowley taking off his clothes for him was. He wanted to close his eyes but he fought against it, because the image of Crowley right there below him, observing him and fighting with his buttons was incredible to be missed. It was breathtaking how little moments with him were the most valuable, the most irreplaceable. 

The waistcoat ended up on the floor too, followed by the shirt and his trousers. Aziraphale stopped Crowley’s hands when they were trying to take his underwear off — he wanted Crowley to be the first one to be naked. 

Consequently, he did so, carefully, as if Crowley was going to break just for that. 

“You are so beautiful. You must be tired of hearing me say it over and over by now.”

Crowley laughed quietly. “You do say it a lot. I’ll never get tired of it, though. Even if 

you’re more beautiful than me.”

“Flatterer.”

“But it’s true.”

Aziraphale decided to shut him up for a bit and kissed him, which proved to be effective. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and then did the same with his legs, wrapping them around Aziraphale’s waist in a fluid motion.

Crowley kissed the patch of skin just below Aziraphale’s ear. 

“Let me take care of you.” Crowley’s voice was rough and needy.

Aziraphale pouted. “That should be me. You won the duel, it’s only fair.”

Crowley whined and Aziraphale gave him a quick peck. “Come on. I won’t force you into anything you don’t want, but don’t you at least have a request? Anything you want?”

Crowley thought for a minute and then mumbled something. Perhaps other animals, acute to ultrasound, would have been able to hear it, but Aziraphale only had human abilities and while he was quite versed into understanding the various noises in Crowley’s repertory, when he was trying to form words it was better to, well, hear them.

“What was that?”

“I said that I would like… erm. You, I guess.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, dear.”

Crowley blushed furiously.

“I want you inside me.”

_Oh._

Aziraphale’s smile widened and he kissed the nose of a very flustered Crowley.

“I think I can manage that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * About lover's eye: A “lover’s eye” miniature is a painted miniature of the giver’s eye, presented to a loved one. The notion accompanying this very short-lived fad (c.1790 through 1820) was that the eye would be recognizable only to the recipient and could, therefore, be worn publicly keeping the lover’s identity a secret. (from langantiques.com)
> 
> Crowley, with a shaky voice: there's a bee?   
> (it was a wasp but my point stands)
> 
> Chapter title from Dinner and Diatribes by Hozier.


	19. You were burned, you were about to burn, you’re still on fire

Crowley blinked.

“Are you sure you want this? It’s fine if you don’t, angel.”

Aziraphale kissed him on the nose and Crowley blushed. He was too obviously weak to it and Aziraphale sure knew how to get the best out of flustering him.

“I’m sure.”

Crowley squirmed a bit more. “If you change your mind you’ll tell me? Or if you want to do anything else…”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Don’t worry, dear. I promise I’ll be honest with you, and I expect the same in return.”

Crowley nodded. He was excited and a bit nervous, but the steady light in Aziraphale’s eyes was soothing and welcoming, and it was calming him down.

Aziraphale gave him a quick peck on the lips and proceeded to lick the raindrops off Crowley’s throat, making him shudder. His hands caressed his torso as Crowley gripped his back, feeling the softness and muscles underneath.

Aziraphale was on top of him, drenched with rain and loving him, and Crowley wanted to live in this instant forever.

He felt Aziraphale’s tongue on his right nipple and Crowley gasped; Aziraphale playfully plucked it with his lips, to then direct his hands to Crowley’s hips to keep him in place. Crowley realized, dizzy, that Aziraphale was still wearing his underwear, so he started to tug at it without much success.

“Alright, alright, let me.” Aziraphale put Crowley’s hands away from them and took them off, letting them fall to the ground with the rest of their wet clothes.

It was exhilarating, watching Aziraphale take his clothes to then carelessly leave them on the floor, as if they were doing something forbidden. Aziraphale’s habit of folding and taking care of clothes had rubbed off on him, and the contrast was far more exciting than it should have been in normal circumstances.

The vision of Aziraphale’s erection made his mouth wet, and Crowley wondered if he could taste it before continuing, but Aziraphale kissed him on the lips and his tongue chased all the thoughts away. Aziraphale’s wet curls tickled his forehead and Crowley giggled despite himself.

“What’s so amusing?” Aziraphale murmured against his lips.

“Your hair is tickling me.”

“Well, _your_ hair is far longer than mine and it’s tickling me too, so I don’t think you deserve to complain.”

Crowley played with one of his locks. “You love my hair, though.”

Aziraphale ran a hand through Crowley’s hair, careful as not to accidentally tug on it because it was a bit tangled. He smiled and his eyes sparkled.

“I do. But I bet you would look just as fetching with it short.”

Crowley laughed but leaned towards the touch. “You would say that with any hairstyle I’d have.”

“And I would be right.”

“I will not argue with your logic.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned towards Crowley again and bit his earlobe, which made Crowley cock his hips in response.

“I love your reactions. Your entire body is always so responsive to everything, my dear. I never get tired of it.” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and it made Crowley’s heart sing.

Crowley let his hands wander to Aziraphale’s arse and he squeezed, letting a sigh out at the amazing softness under his fingertips.

“And I love your bottom,” was his response.

Aziraphale laughed. “I can see that.”

Crowley moved his hands towards Aziraphale’s thighs and caressed his stretch marks with his fingers, marvelling at them. Aziraphale let him, watching with his head slightly tilted to the side. He dropped his body at Crowley’s side, with one hand caressing the red hair as Crowley continued to follow the pale lines on his skin up to his stomach as if he was painting on his skin the beauty he was seeing.

He continued towards Aziraphale’s torso, silently observing every scar and mark on his skin, memorising every inch of Aziraphale, every curve of his body. There were straight scars and round ones, all of them originating in wounds by different swords. All the ways Aziraphale had lost or not been able to protect himself fully when his father had made him duel with real swords. The one Miss Andrews had made had almost completely disappeared, as Tracy predicted, but Crowley caressed the spot anyway, remembering how scared he had been upon seeing all that blood.

Aziraphale, sensing what he was thinking, cupped his cheek with his hand and locked his eyes with him. They were blue and grey with spots of green — the sea, the storm and the garden.

“I will be fine.” His voice didn’t have a shred of doubt and his eyes were firm.

Crowley nodded; he believed him.

He sighed and the tense moment was gone. Crowley wanted to enjoy this to the maximum of his capacity and make Aziraphale as happy as he felt right there, with him, on that bed.

He lifted his hand and caressed Aziraphale’s lips with his index finger. His eyes turned a bit dark, as expected, and Crowley shivered as Aziraphale parted his lips, allowing space for Crowley to touch them as much as he pleased. Aziraphale kissed his finger slowly and Crowley slid it inside carefully. He was met with Aziraphale’s tongue and the wet bliss made him moan again. Aziraphale moved his head until all of his finger was inside his mouth and then he took it out again, flickering his eyelashes at Crowley.

Crowley was positive he could come just with that.

Aziraphale licked the length of his finger and it made Crowley remember how he had done the same thing to his cock, which made it twitch.

“I love your face when I do that.” Aziraphale’s voice was low.

Crowley swallowed, completely hypnotized by Aziraphale’s shifting eye colour.

“How about you turn around and put yourself on all fours?”

Crowley was going to die. _For sure_. If Aziraphale ever used that sentence during a duel, paired with that look in his eyes, he would never lose again. Not that Crowley would inform him of that particular advantage, of course.

With Aziraphale’s help, he did as he was told with his face flushed; he was completely exposed in a way that he hadn’t before. Aziraphale moved until he was kneeling behind Crowley, and he put his hands on his hip bones — Crowley tried not to yelp at that.

Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale, but he suddenly felt a kiss on the small of his back. He instinctively arched his back and Aziraphale chuckled.

“Relax, my dear.”

Crowley had never, not _once_ , been able to relax in his entire life, but he tried his best. Aziraphale bit the place where his arse started as his hands pulled his cheeks apart. Crowley’s breath accelerated as he felt Aziraphale’s breath close to his entrance; he clenched on the blankets as Aziraphale continued to kiss his way down.

One of Aziraphale’s hands moved imperceptibly closer to Crowley’s erection, making the skin of his groin tingle.

“Angel….”

“Don’t be impatient, dear.”

Aziraphale chose that moment to put his tongue on Crowley and he moaned. Aziraphale tightened his grip on him to prevent him from moving as he continued, doing careful circular motions. The hand that got close to Crowley’s cock moved again until his fingertips brushed him, making him twitch.

The combination of sensations was making Crowley’s head spin, but it was nothing compared to when Aziraphale’s tongue pressed inside of him. Crowley moaned, and Aziraphale hummed against him as he thoroughly moved his tongue inside him. He finally wrapped his hand around Crowley’s cock. Crowley’s thoughts flew out of the window at that instant as he was transformed into a puddle of moans and consonants while he was pleasured by Aziraphale’s tongue and hand.

Aziraphale eventually pulled away and Crowley tried to breathe, realizing now how hard he had been grabbing the blankets — he had to make a conscious effort to relax his fingers. Aziraphale’s motions on his cock slowed down until they were lazy, just enough friction to remind Crowley that he was there.

“How are you?” Aziraphale’s voice was rough and that sent a wave of pleasure through Crowley.

As he was unable to construct coherent sentences, Crowley resorted to a simple whine. Aziraphale chuckled, but then stopped the motions on Crowley’s cock ignoring Crowley’s whimper. He could only guess what Aziraphale was going to do next, as he was unable to see it — he turned around only to see Aziraphale already looking at him with a dangerous sparkle in his eyes and his lips wet and red.

Aziraphale moved his arm and Crowley felt a fingertip circling his entrance tentatively. After a few unnerving seconds, his finger pushed in surprisingly easily, helped by Aziraphale’s previous ministrations and, Crowley realized, his own precome.

Crowley began to fuck himself with Aziraphale’s finger as it moved inside him. Aziraphale pressed another kiss at the base of Crowley’s spine.

“So lovely.”

Crowley moaned. It was a bit embarrassing, coming apart in Aziraphale’s hands as soon as he touched him or praised him.

Aziraphale put another finger then, moving in and out of him as he meticulously spread Crowley, scissoring inside of him.

After a while, Crowley tried to speak.

“I —” Crowley cleared his throat. “I can take another.”

Aziraphale hummed. “Yes, I rather think you can.”

Crowley felt the third finger and sighed. There was a hand in his hair then, softly caressing him and ever so slightly scratching his scalp. Crowley couldn’t help it — he hissed.

“Quite the serpent, aren’t you?” Crowley would have bet all of his painting tools that Aziraphale was wiggling his shoulders at that moment.

Suddenly Aziraphale pulled all his fingers out and Crowley complained at the emptiness in him.

“Don’t worry, my dear. Be patient.”

While he panted, trying to recompose himself with his head down and hair surrounding his vision like a curtain, he heard Aziraphale spit in his hand. A couple of moments later, the tip of Aziraphale’s cock teased his entrance and Crowley moved his hips backwards, trying to accelerate the process.

“Come on, angel…” he pleaded.

Aziraphale put his hands on his hips and, finally, his cock began to enter, slowly and carefully. Crowley gasped when all of Aziraphale’s length was inside of him.

Aziraphale moaned. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Angel, move, I don’t think I’ll last that long.” Crowley choked.

Aziraphale did so and began to move at an infuriating low pace. Thankfully he was putting care into thrusting in all the important places, making Crowley see sparkles. He was being thoroughly and meticulously fucked as he heard Aziraphale’s moans, his fingers steadying Crowley in place by the hips. Crowley was grateful for the refreshing rain from before, as his skin was only now starting to feel hot.

One of Aziraphale’s hands went to Crowley’s neck and began to caress down his spine with two fingers, slowly, as he continued to thrust into Crowley. It made him arch his back at it as he moved down until it reached his arse. Then he repeated the motion going upwards with his palm wide open, sending shivers through Crowley’s skin.

“I think you’re more used to me now, dear. I’ll move faster.”

Crowley wasn’t too sure on how he was supposed to survive it, but he nodded, eager to feel it. Aziraphale quickened his pace gradually, the hand with which he had been caressing his back now going downwards again, this time with his nails, not enough to scratch but enough as to _feel_ them against his skin.

“Your back looks so attractive from this position, Crowley, you have no idea. And you clench around me so beautifully as you accept me inside you.”

Crowley whimpered, his ears hot as every time he heard Aziraphale speaking in such a manner. Aziraphale went faster now, their thighs meeting again and again. Crowley’s arms were feeling weak and the impulse of Aziraphale’s motions made his arms finally give in, suddenly finding his face pressed into the pillow as Aziraphale continued, his cock hot inside of Crowley. Aziraphale had finally lost control, judging by the mismatched rhythm he was keeping.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale breathed.

“I’m close too, angel.”

Crowley pressed his face deeper into the pillow, but a sudden motion made him yelp in surprise. Aziraphale lifted him as he sat down on his legs with his back straight and knees still on the mattress, using his force to put Crowley on his lap without separating them. Crowley moaned at this display of strength and came untouched, the ghost of Aziraphale’s lips on his ear.

Aziraphale moved his hips upwards as Crowley went through his orgasm, leaving kisses on Crowley’s neck and finally came, spilling inside Crowley — he gasped and shivered while he felt Aziraphale moaning at the pleasure.

They collapsed to the bed and Crowley immediately wrapped himself around Aziraphale, not yet wanting to let go of his comfortable warmth, no matter how sticky and hot he felt. Aziraphale kissed him on the forehead.

“How are you feeling?”

Crowley assessed his state of being at the moment. His soul had ascended and left his body, probably not ever coming back; his muscles were a bit shaky but for now, fine. They were probably going to feel sore later on, though.

“Good. Very good. And you?” There was obvious concern in his voice, still, and Crowley grimaced.

Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley sighed in relief. “Very good too.”

“You should get cleaned up,” Aziraphale pointed out.

Crowley groaned. His eyelids felt heavy and though the rain had long stopped, he was being lulled by the drops falling from the trees outside. He didn’t want to leave this warm nest with Aziraphale in it.

“Do you need me to carry you?” Aziraphale offered.

While that was an enticing idea, it also implied moving, which Crowley had already stated in his mind was no good. He groaned again, this time more decisively, and Aziraphale sighed exasperatedly.

“Crowley… come on, my love.”

Crowley softened.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go. But you clean the mess downstairs.”

Aziraphale frowned, confused. “What mess?”

“The one you insisted so much on cleaning. We drenched everything when we ran inside wet from the rain,” said Crowley, amused.

“Oh! Oh, yes, you’re right. I had completely forgotten. What would I do without you?”

Crowley blushed as he watched Aziraphale get up. He tenderly slapped him on one bony knee.

“Come on, get up!”

“Argh, angel. You’ll be the death of me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. And while you’re at it, go fetch some clean blankets to change the dirty ones.”

“Aziraphale, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am your painter, not your blanket changer.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “And this is your bed. I doubt very much you want to sleep in a dirty bed.”

He was right. “Fiiiiine.”

Crowley untangled his limbs to acquire a human form and got up to consequently having his nose kissed, to his great consternation.

===

After cleaning up, because of Crowley’s insistence, they went back to bed for a quick nap. It was the beginning of the afternoon now and even if they had lunch not too long ago, Aziraphale was feeling a bit peckish and before going back to bed he made sure to grab some left-over cake. Crowley took a quick nap with his head on Aziraphale’s lap while he ate, caressing Crowley’s hair and trying to untangle it. When he finished the cake, he used both of his hands to make tiny braids in the auburn hair. The motion kept him busy from unwelcome thoughts.

Before he could get into a too tragic set of mind in which he reminded himself that their time together was counted, Crowley stirred and opened his eyes, blinking slowly and taking the image of Aziraphale above him. He smiled and Aziraphale’s heart widened.

“Good morning, angel.”

Aziraphale giggled. “It’s still the same day. You only slept for an hour.”

Crowley frowned. “Really? I feel strangely rested. We should sleep together more often.”

He realized what he just said and blushed — Aziraphale ran a finger through his cheekbones.

“Any time, my dear.” He grinned.

Aziraphale meant it in both ways. He could live without all those strange nightmares about Crowley drowning, and his presence at this side in previous occasions had proven that sleeping with him made the nightmares disappear.

“It’s just that I have nightmares sometimes,” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale perked at that. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” Crowley snuggled into Aziraphale’s leg. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Alright, my dear.” Aziraphale finished one of the braids and caressed Crowley’s forehead. “Do you want to go downstairs?”

“Hmph.”

Aziraphale sighed. “You will not be able to sleep if you stay in bed all afternoon. Come on, we can go to the living room and do the very same thing we’re doing but on the couch.”

“So why would be the point of moving, then?”

“We could get dressed and open up some windows. The sun came out some time ago and it’s started to be rather hot.”

“Bloody English weather.”

Aziraphale clapped. “Let’s go then.”

Crowley groaned the entire time it took Aziraphale to get up, and it redoubled when he took the blanket off from Crowley. The sleepy man murmured something along the lines of “insufferable” as he turned into a ball, but it didn’t save him from the inevitable conclusion that there was no other option than to get up. He did so while changing his groaning into whining for a more accurate description of his endless suffering.

Aziraphale walked away to his room to retrieve some clothes, carrying with him the wet ones to put them to dry. He put clean clothes on, making sure the pocket watch with its precious content was in place in his pocket. Satisfied, he walked back to Crowley’s room to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped around the blanket with his braided hair peeking out. His eyes were half close, unhappy with the world.

“I’m sore.”

Aziraphale tried not to look too smug about it. “Of course you are.”

Crowley squinted his eyes at him. “It’s your fault”.

“I didn’t see you complaining. Shall I refresh your memory, and recall that it was your idea?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “It was a _good_ idea. But now I’m sore.”

“Don’t be so dramatic and come downstairs. You don’t even need to put your clothes on if you don’t want to. Better for me, anyway.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow, interested in the deal presented to him; he could cater to his lazy needs and Aziraphale’s wishes at the same time. He sighed, acknowledging his defeat. He got up with his blanket still wrapped around him and they descended the stairs. The blanket was touching the ground as Crowley walked, his usual swaying a bit toned down due to the circumstances which made Aziraphale smile again.

They entered the living room and Aziraphale opened the curtains, letting the unexpected sunlight in while Crowley took a look around.

“You know, I think I haven’t been here before.”

“Really? Well, we don’t use this room much, so it’s not all that surprising.”

Crowley’s eyes stopped on an object in the middle of the room.

“Is that a harpsichord?”

Crowley immediately approached it and put away the blanket covering it up. It was a beautiful instrument, unusually white and golden, and it was shining under the light. Crowley touched it with admiring eyes while Aziraphale wriggled his hands.

“Yes, well. My mother used to play it, but after everything that happened, she stopped. It’s a pity, though, she was quite good at it.”

Crowley caressed the wood carvings on its side, appreciating the handiwork.

“I can play a bit.”

“Oh, really?”

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, some guy taught me. But it’s a bit embarrassing.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow, very interested. “What is?”

Crowley didn’t look at him and continued to circle the instrument.

“Well, I… Fine, I’ll just say it. I only know how to play one song.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help it. He laughed.

“ _One_ song, Crowley? For real?”

“Hey, at least I know it. You don’t know how to play a single one, I bet.”

“Fair.”

Crowley inspected the inside of the harpsichord. “It looks pretty fine to me.”

“We still get it maintained even if my mother doesn’t play it anymore. I hope she will, someday, and I don’t wish for the instrument to get damaged.”

He silently watched Crowley, his hair braided and a bit of a mess, with the blanket falling a bit to reveal a bit of his freckled shoulder as he walked around. Shadows danced on his face as he moved around the room, the light from the window hitting him differently at every passing moment. It reminded Aziraphale of the poem he had read out loud.

“Would you play it for me?”

Crowley put a face. “It’s been a long time since I played it. It’d be awful.”

Aziraphale pouted.

“Alright, angel,” Crowley sighed.

He sat down on the seat in front of the harpsichord, careful as not to let his blanket fall to the ground, but flinched when his arse touched the seat. Aziraphale giggled and sat down on his side letting their shoulders touch. Crowley breathed in and, with a delicate and fluid motion of his slender fingers, he began to play.

Aziraphale gasped as the melody filled the room. It was a patient song but at the same time a nervous one, like the flapping of wings and the way sunlight breaks the surface and dances inside of water. Crowley was focused on what he was doing, with his tongue barely peeking out from between his lips.

It was the best song Aziraphale had ever heard.

It sounded brave, somehow, and it inspired something in him that grew and took a flickering shape as the song continued. It wasn’t the all-consuming fire he had grown practically used to, different from the way all his responsibilities and expectations fell on his shoulders, crushing him and scorching him from inside. No; this was gentle, courageous and kind.

 _Fire is also life, and passion, and bravery_ — _the gift to keep you alive in the coldest of nights. If I am to perish by the power of fire, at least let that fire be yours._

“Fuck, I made a mistake,” Crowley groaned.

The music stopped and Crowley looked at his hand, severely disappointed in it. Aziraphale laughed and kissed him on the uncovered shoulder.

“Don’t worry, it’s incredible. Can I hear it again?”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I’m not that good.”

“You are amazing, my dear,” Aziraphale assured.

Crowley’s eyes shifted in the light, sensing Aziraphale’s badly repressed emotion in his voice, but did as he was told and restarted the song. This time Aziraphale closed his eyes and let himself be wrapped in the warm embrace of Crowley’s music.

How could a song appeal to him in such a way? Sounds of crows in the garden outside accompanied it and Crowley continued to play this time more fluidly as his hands remembered the steps. In Aziraphale’s mind, it was the song that had played in them every time they did something that they shouldn’t have done but decided to follow their hearts and be brave; when they had decided to be honest, when they began to be true friends, when they had kissed. When Crowley smiled at him, and touched him adoringly, and teased him; how he walked around circling Aziraphale, and his fear of insects.

A wave of relief washed through him — Aziraphale had made the best of decisions when he had decided to let his desires be known. Instead of running away from Crowley and his ever-growing emotions, he had faced them, and that had taken them to this precise moment, sitting side to side. Tracy had been right, of course. Even things that eventually end are better to experience than just fear them; if he hadn’t taken that decision he would have missed so much. And even despite that, he had to let go; this realization wasn’t one that one made and accepted. It came time and again to him as the loss he was about to experience turned too real.

But he was glad to be there. He was afraid of the future _but happy to be there_. And, somehow, the song was making him braver and more hopeful about it. He could do this, he could survive and still maintain contact with Crowley. He was now sure of it.

Crowley finished the song with a broad smile on his face, satisfied that this time he hadn’t made any mistakes.

“Angel, I did it—”

Before he could continue, Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s cheeks and kissed him, pouring all of his emotions in it; Crowley sighed and gave himself into the kiss. Their noses brushed briefly; Aziraphale smiled at Crowley’s flickering tongue.

When they pulled apart, Crowley licked his lips.

“You taste of cake, angel. And if this is how you’ll thank me for playing, I think I should play way more times.”

Aziraphale gave him a _look_ , but he was too happy for it to have the intended message.

“You are truly an artist, my dear.”

Crowley wriggled his eyebrows. “I hope in all the senses of the word.”

“I am not the sore one, I have to remind you.”

Crowley pointed his finger at him. “Do not provoke me, angel, or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

“Oh, my, what a fiery demon. I am deeply afraid.” Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders with anything but fear.

Crowley grunted. “You better be.”

Aziraphale caressed the instrument’s keys, eliciting some sounds at random. He was a bit distracted today, and the turmoil of emotions he had just gone through was still going around in his head. He very much wanted to relax for a bit; it had been quite a day already.

He expressed this opinion to Crowley who unsurprisingly thought the same — they agreed on meeting in the library after Crowley got dressed.

When Crowley stepped inside, Aziraphale lifted his gaze from his diary and found him carrying the portrait canvas and his art tools. In silent surprise, he watched as Crowley settled it in the space between Aziraphale and the fireplace with a resolved expression on his face. Aziraphale crossed his legs, sitting on the couch, and arched an eyebrow in the resemblance of a question.

“I’m just so close to finishing it,” Crowley explained.

“And wouldn’t it be better to do so in your room? Do you need me to pose?”

Crowley shook his head as he observed the portrait, assessing the progress. “Nope, it’s not needed. I just need to polish some details at this point, and the light here is more than enough for that.”

“Alright, then, if you insist.”

Crowley got to work then and Aziraphale did the same. Well, he wasn’t exactly writing in his diary; he was simply reading old passages, silently smiling at himself. Perhaps he would show this to Crowley, one day.

Time slowly passed and the only sound that could be heard was the gentle brush on the canvas and some sounds Crowley made as he progressed. Aziraphale wondered how it was even possible for him to get anything done as he appeared to always be moving in place and looking at his surroundings other than painting. Luckily, Crowley had forgotten to put his glasses on, and Aziraphale could see that his stare was unfocused as he looked elsewhere. He wasn’t distracted; he was merely weighing his options and next steps.

Aziraphale closed the diary and put it away, done with reminiscing. When he was about to stand up and fetch a book Crowley put down his brush with a triumphant sparkle in his eyes.

“Done! It’s finished, angel!”

Aziraphale smiled. It was a bittersweet emotion, having his portrait finished and what it entailed; but after all of Crowley’s hard work, it was exciting for it to be finally completed.

“Do you want to see it?” Crowley asked, nervous.

“Of course! I would love to.”

Aziraphale got up and circled it to see and he gasped. No words came out of his mouth as he admired the painting.

His own eyes were staring back at him, gentle and full of light; he was wearing a green waistcoat with flower embroidery that reminded him of the flowers in his garden. The background was blue, darker at the corners but with light surrounding him, making him look as if he was slightly glowing. His hands were in front of him, touching each other in a nervous fashion, and the same emotion was reflected in his smile.

“So… what do you think?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, then back at the portrait, and shook his head. “This is amazing, Crowley. You are so talented.”

Crowley grimaced. “I don’t know. Something is off about this as if something is missing. And, well, it may look like you but it’s not _you,_ really. Not how I came to know you. It’s Lord Angelo.”

Aziraphale nodded. He couldn’t see it, really, the effect Crowley was talking about; in his opinion, nothing was missing, but he decided not to point it out. Crowley was the artist and he knew far more about it than him.

Crowley took two steps back and collapsed on the couch.

“I never want to look at that damn painting ever again.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I hope you don’t think so, as it’s my face.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course, dear. I was just teasing you.”

Crowley grunted. Aziraphale stared at the painting for a bit more wondering what his mother would think of it. She probably wouldn’t offer any opinions; what was most important was that it would serve its purpose. Lady Angelo was to arrive by the end of the week and when she’d approved it, it would be sent to Milan.

Aziraphale put those thoughts away and walked towards the accomplished painter on the couch. Before he could sit down, a sudden knock stopped him mid-motion. They shared a look.

“One moment please!” said Aziraphale.

He walked out to the stairs as a knock came again coming from the main door. He reached it and when he opened it he found Newt standing there with a huge package in his hands.

“Oh, hello, Newt. Weren’t you with Anathema?”

Newt shifted in place, nervous as he always was. “Uh, yes, but I was asked to give this to you but then it was raining and it couldn’t get wet so I had to wait until now. I’m sorry, my lord, but Anathema invited me to have dinner with her…”

Aziraphale shook his hand. “Don’t worry, dear boy. Go have fun.”

Newt happily nodded, gave Aziraphale the package and, after a brief bow, he walked away in a hurry, eager to see his partner again. Aziraphale smiled at his enthusiasm and closed the door.

He found Crowley in the same position as to how he left him with his limbs extended around him like a starfish.

“Who was it?” he mumbled.

Aziraphale walked towards him and put the package next to him on the couch still unopened.

“Newt. He had to deliver this to me, but couldn’t because of the rain.”

Crowley frowned. “Didn’t it stop raining hours ago?”

“He must have been distracted.” They shared a significant look and laughed.

“Well, let’s take a look.” Crowley finally moved but the moment he saw the package he arched his eyebrows.

“What is it, Crowley?”

Crowley pointed it with a finger. “That’s a painting.”

Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m bloody sure. I’m a painter after all.”

“Alright then.”

As there was no other option, Aziraphale began to tear away the paper covering it. The scraps fell to the floor quietly until their contents were revealed. A sound began to climb from deep down in Aziraphale’s stomach to his throat, stopping there before he could throw it up. He took two steps back with his hands at his sides, trembling.

Crowley stood up and walked towards him immediately and he grabbed Aziraphale’s arm to steady him. He glanced at the painting and saw it was a portrait but he didn’t recognize who it was.

“Aziraphale? Angel, what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry, and he was scared he would end up vomiting if he opened his mouth. He tried to breathe, in vain. Crowley took his face between his hands making him tear his eyes away from the portrait to look at him instead.

“Look at me, angel. Breathe. I’m here with you.”

Aziraphale concentrated on the face of the man he loved; his heart was hammering at his ribcage but he somehow managed to steady his breathing as Crowley said soothing words.

After a couple of minutes, he felt a bit more steady and dared to open his mouth. Luckily nothing but his shaky voice came from it.

“It’s _her,_ Crowley.”

Crowley frowned. “Who?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to reorder his chaotic thoughts.

“It’s Miss Bee Moscatelli.”

Those blue, cold eyes staring at him proudly, like he was mere garbage under her feet; her mouth, pressed into a mean and serious expression, with her face framed by dark, black hair. She was wearing a dark purple dress that made her look pale and morbid, like a ghost haunting an old manor.

Aziraphale pressed his eyes shut, but those eyes were there in his mind too, judging him, bringing to the surface old memories that he had hoped were long gone.

A kiss on his frown made him come back to reality. “Aziraphale, don’t force yourself. Let’s get out of here and leave this in the library. We can go take a walk to clear our heads, how does that sound?”

Crowley’s face was a rictus of concern. Aziraphale tilted his head, looking at him, grateful that he was there with him. Fear was still running inside his veins, but at least he was controlling his body reactions to it better.

“Don’t worry, Crowley. I’m still a bit shaky, but I’m better. I was not expecting this, simply. To see her face after all these years…”

Crowley nodded, even if he had no idea of what Aziraphale was talking about. With Crowley following from up close, they walked towards Aziraphale’s armchair, where he could sit down while not having to see the portrait. Crowley sat on Aziraphale’s desk.

“She was Gabriel’s best friend. Always there to mock and torture me. Many of the scars I have today are her work, not only Gabriel’s. Their idea of a good time was planning different ways in which they would make me suffer and then following up on those plans. She was sadistic and merciless, Crowley. I… I still have shivers just thinking about it.” Aziraphale stared at his hands, clenched together on top of his lap.

It had all been ages ago and so much had happened until then — but at that moment he felt like the scared little boy he had been. Crowley put a hand on his reassuringly.

“What I don’t understand is why your brother seemed so scared in his diary. Did he know who he was going to marry?” Crowley said, frowning.

Aziraphale shook his head. “He must have, but perhaps they weren’t as good friends as I thought they were. Miss Moscatelli was more vicious and cruel than my brother; maybe he realised that eventually.”

“And why are they sending you her portrait?”

Aziraphale had a very strong suspicion. He got up and, gathering all the courage he could manage, walked towards the portrait left on the couch. He turned it around ignoring the ice-cold eyes and, as expected, found a letter attached there. He took it and put the canvas on the couch again.

As he sat down on the armchair he opened the letter. It was brief — the handwriting was pointed and difficult to decipher.

Under Crowley’s gaze, Aziraphale began to read.

“ _Dear Lord Angelo,_

_I am Bee Moscatelli. I send you my portrait as a gift and demonstration of my good intentions towards you and your family._

_As it has been negotiated with your mother, I will be expecting the coming of your portrait soon as a way to seal our deal. It’s a pity Lord Gabriel Angelo isn’t here with us anymore, but as you understand, this marriage is of the utmost importance for both families._

_You were young back then, and I am sure you probably don’t remember, but we used to play together, along with your brother. I cherish those days and still remember them with a smile. Your mother has mentioned that perhaps you knew already I was your fiancée, so I hope this doesn’t come as a surprise for you._

_I eagerly wait the day we meet again,_

_Bee Moscatelli.”_

Aziraphale swallowed and put the paper down on the free space of the desk as if it was burning him.

“So, you already knew your fiancée?” Crowley said with an unsure voice.

“Not exactly. I knew it was one of Gabriel’s friends from the fencing school, and even if I had my suspicions, I didn’t exactly know who it was. My mother never told me and I was too afraid to ask. I wouldn’t be able to accept it… if it was _her_.” Aziraphale paled even more.

“You’re telling me that you are being forced to marry someone you can’t even look at, not even in a painting, without it making you feel this bad?” Crowley’s voice was shaking with fury and his hands were tightly closed into fists.

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s leg, trying to calm him down. “My dear, I know this is horrifying, I admit it, but there is nothing we can do.”

“There is, Aziraphale.”

Crowley’s voice was deep and serious as was his face. There was resolution in his eyes and Aziraphale realized that a decision had been made, right there and then.

“Which one?”

“Come with me, angel. Let’s run away together and start over. Leave all of this behind, this house and this family that doesn’t love you or respect you.” Crowley gestured to the house around them.

Aziraphale began to shake his head, trying to keep the echo of Crowley’s determination out of him. He couldn’t be convinced. It was out of the question. Crowley’s hands were on his shoulders as he continued.

“Please, Aziraphale, _please._ Don’t do this. You hate her, you can’t possibly marry her and be happy, or even content with your life. Let me take you away from all this, we can open that bookshop of yours, the one you want so much. We can earn a living with it, can you imagine it, angel? We could be happy.” Crowley’s voice was sad and desperate, matching his eyes.

 _Yes_ , Aziraphale could imagine it. He could see it: the entrance, the shelves of books, even the smell of them. Crowley there, with him, sprawled across the couch as Aziraphale read to him. He would have his eyes closed, completely relaxed, and Aziraphale would only stop reading to kiss his forehead. They could put up all of Crowley’s creations on the walls, competing with each other because anything that Crowley made was beautiful.

 _Yes_ , they could be happy. Aziraphale believed it firmly.

And it couldn’t happen. Because this Aziraphale wasn’t brave and he was too scared to deviate from the path laid in front of him. He had a duty to see through, to save his family and his house, even if he hated them. Crowley had helped him realize that, but he was an Angelo — he couldn’t disobey.

Crowley read all of this in his expression and, unable to keep seeing it, he closed his eyes letting the tears fall freely from his face.

“Aziraphale.” He choked and Aziraphale looked away as his heart shattered. “It’s like sending you to your death. I can’t live with it. You are terrified of her, for fuck’s sake!”

Crowley was amazingly angry; Aziraphale had never seen him this way. Crowley was furious for him and fighting against this injustice. He was behaving in the way Aziraphale should have, he realized. He should be the one screaming and fighting with teeth and nails against it. Aziraphale should be standing up and preparing a suitcase to run away and never looking back.

But he wasn’t. He was just numb, his brain refusing to acknowledge reality. Crowley was right but the dread of realizing he couldn’t escape and how that made Crowley feel made him disconnect.

“Angel, say something”, Crowley sobbed.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand, drenched with tears, and kissed it.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to mutter before falling silent.

Crowley whined and got up suddenly, swaying a bit as his legs threatened to give up. He stood in front of Aziraphale and then knelt in front of him, making him look at his face. Aziraphale did so as if he was looking through a veil; part of him fought against the dissociation but he let himself go. He needed it, even if it was only for a second — he needed to stop feeling for a moment.

Crowley shakily breathed and some of his fury settled down.

“Aziraphale, I will go out now. I need to calm down and think. I’m not mad at you in any way, alright? I just — I just need to breathe fresh air for a bit, because I don’t think I can be good company for you now. And then I’ll come back and, if you want, we can talk about it, or we can just enjoy ourselves and relax for a bit. Anything you want.”

Aziraphale nodded but said nothing.

Crowley caressed him on the cheek. “I love you so much, angel. I’ll be right back before you know it.”

Aziraphale silently watched him stand up and grab his art tools to then walk away. When he was alone, he closed his eyes and focused on breathing.

===

Crowley slammed the easel into place and put the drawing on it. He was still furious but it had transformed into a quiet rage. He had decided to continue his painting of the town as a way of distraction as he desperately needed to focus on something else for a while.

The air was hot and dry, all traces of the morning’s rain gone. The sun wasn’t illuminating as hard as it had been previously, enough as not to bother. It wasn’t dark yet, and even if it was, Crowley would have been trying to paint either way.

He furiously started to colour the houses’ chimneys, but his mind was still vociferating about what just happened. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault and for that very same reason Crowley had decided it best to step away and gather his thoughts. Aziraphale’s state worried him when he walked away, but having his emotions all over the place wasn’t appropriate to be supportive of anyone. He would paint for a bit, breathe, and as soon as his temper got better, he would come back.

It was very rare for Crowley to get this angry. But everything they had gone through, everything he knew about Aziraphale and all of his worries had been accumulating in his mind until it all exploded in his face with the knowledge of how far Aziraphale’s sacrifice would go. Just imagining him marrying someone he was so scared of, someone he hated and that provoked such an instinctual adverse reaction was enough as to make Crowley nearly snap the brush in two. It was already bad to marry someone he didn’t love, all for the sake of a family that had done nothing for him — but the person that had bullied him? And having to be with her for the rest of his life? Probably having children together, even? It made Crowley sick.

Miss Bee Moscatelli. Of course, she had to have an insect’s name.

At least painting the town was starting to make its effect on him. It was nice to draw something different for once, instead of people, even if it wasn’t his general predilection. Honestly, he wasn’t very good at it, but any activity that could distract his nervous mind was more than welcome. There weren’t many people out and it was all very quiet; only some birds were singing and filling the silence from time to time. There was a dry breeze shaking Crowley’s clothes but the hot temperature made standing still bearable. His body hurt a bit but he was feeling better now so it was something positive to think about. Not that he had been enjoying the delicious ache reminding him of Aziraphale in him mere hours ago.

Crowley decided to paint the sky as it was now, darkening with red, violet and deep orange colours. This place was breathtaking with the sea omnipresent all around them with its scent and quiet waves and it accompanied him as he worked, steadying him in a way that was nearly as powerful as painting. The landscape extended in front of him until it was interrupted by the endless horizon of the sea.

Something caught his eye as he worked and, upon lifting his eyes from the canvas, he managed to see a shadow going in his direction from one street to another to be quickly hidden by a house. It had been very fast and Crowley wasn’t even sure of what he had seen. He stared at the place for a minute, remembering with a cold sweat the time he had thought someone had been spying on him and Aziraphale in the _salle,_ but as nothing else happened he wondered if he had simply seen a cat.

Sighing, he closed his eyes for a second to calm himself down again. Crowley was being paranoid letting his emotions quickly resurface. He mixed a bit of colour and entertained himself with the shades before continuing. He had to feel better faster. Aziraphale was waiting for him. Crowley decided to give himself half an hour more, maximum, and then come back to him. Where he belonged.

Minutes passed and something interrupted Crowley again. There was a subtle change in the air. It had been progressive and not until a bit of time had gone by was when his brain had detected it. He tore his eyes from the drawing and looked around him trying to place what had distracted him. He frowned, as there was nothing visibly strange, but the hair in the back of his neck stood up.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

The fact that he couldn’t place it was stressing him out. Crowley sniffed the air and, with a shudder, realized it smelled of smoke.

Panicking, he turned around and saw in the distance a huge cloud of smoke going up in the air mixing with the darkening colours of the sky. It was in the direction of Eden Park.

Crowley let go of his brush and it landed on the ground, splashing red everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Straw House, Straw Dog by Richard Siken
> 
> Piano [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gR4KZjXhoV0)
> 
> "If I am to perish by the power of fire, at least let that fire be yours" from Metamorphoses by Ovid.


	20. All you have is your fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, sorry for this late chapter! I had to leave the house suddenly and came back later than I expected (it was nothing serious). I hope you guys enjoy!

At some point, fire had become an obsession of his.

The flickering of light, the darkness it entailed, the warm and cold that provoked. How his face warmed on one side while the other remained frozen. 

It was hypnotizing. He never grew tired of it.

Every day he ached to see it again and, at night, his dreams were full of it, where everything always burned and scorched his skin without mercy.

Fire had something in it that called to him. Perhaps it was the way it could get out of control without effort or how it consumed everything in its path to leave nothing but ashes. It was cleansing, purifying. But fire could also maintain its composure and be there to guide lost souls, warm them and save lives. 

Fire was life. But it was also death.

Since the first moment he had seen Lord Angelo, he had noticed the flames in his eyes, powerful in a way he had never witnessed before. They matched his own fire and, since then, he had only been able to dream about him surrounded by flames, like an angel being consumed by Hell.

Every night was the same. Only smoke, flames and an angel screaming in agony.

Obsessed, he thought about it, letting the fire propagate to him and feed him from inside. He ached to feel it again, to touch it and let the warmth creep to his arm and towards his soul to finally be consumed by it.

Now the air was full of smoke. Everything around him was red. There were sounds of crows flying away scared by the flames.

But he was not paying attention to them. He was watching the fire.

His eyes were caught by the flames and their powerful control over him returned. Oh, how beautiful fire could be. How destructive. He could practically smell the pain they originated.

One drop of sweat fell down the side of his face and he wiped it off, feeling his skin warm because of the proximity of the fire. 

The house creaked menacingly as one of its areas collapsed; the old wood came down to the ground with astounding noise sending hundreds of flickering sparks that he followed with his eyes everywhere. 

Eden Park was like a lighthouse attracting lost souls to it. Where once the house had been standing proudly against storm and wind it was now collapsing under the relentless power of the fire. Its silhouette was black against the fire coming from within as everything burned, and with its windows and door it was like a face screaming full of pain demanding to be saved.

The living room. The bedrooms. The kitchen with its perpetual delicious smell. The library with its hundreds of books that were so loved, so cherished by the lord. Now it was all being consumed by the fire’s hunger, the fury of the entire universe coming alive to destroy everything in its path. He could picture it; the way the pages would turn black and orange, curling up until finally getting consumed to leave nothing. All those stories and memories disappearing forever. 

The bedroom where he had lived. Gone too as it became ashes to be wiped away by the wind. The _salle_ full of swords invented to hurt others that were as powerful as the hand guiding them. 

Just like fire.

The house continued to creak and whine, crying for the loss of everything it had protected and held inside. It would never come back, not like it used to be, as fire never let one thing be untouched. 

He walked towards the house until the flames nearly burnt him; he was careful not to let his clothes catch. He closed his eyes as he breathed in the smoke and the power it had mixed with the scent of old wood being reduced to nothing.

Oh, how he had missed this. 

Every night he dreamed of fire and it always left him with an ache to see it again, to make that dream a reality. His only true lover — the only thing that could ever understand him. 

His obsession. His passion. His reason to live.

The only constant point in his life since he was a child; always in the back of his mind claiming to come alive and destroy everything in its wake. He had been repressing it for too long. His hatred and anger had become too much to bear. 

And there was no one else that deserved fire than the little lord, as he had so much of it in his soul. He had seen it. It was time to make it a reality.

Hastur opened his eyes and the light scorched them in the most delicious of ways. As the house collapsed in agony, he laughed. 

Still laughing he entered the house before it was totally wiped away. He had to find Lord Angelo.

And make him pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter! I love being dramatic :P it won't happen again, promise!  
> Chapter title from Arsonist’s Lullabye by Hozier. Yes, made on purpose, and the first time Hastur appears in the story I also used this song for the title ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ineffabledemon666) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/_dreamsvalery) <3  
> There's also a [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ZVacSo9HZWAJe0NiLtsfi) to go with this fic!  
> The idea behind this story is based on the movie Portrait of a lady on fire.


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